750. i 
\8&S 


V.2 


OF  THE 
U  N  I  VERS  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 

750.1 

R89tn 

(868 

V.2 


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UNIVERSITY  OF    ILLINOIS   LIBRARY  AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


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MODERN  PAINTEES 


VOL.  11. 


MODERN 
A  I  ¥  T  E  R 


S. 


BY 


A    GRADUATE    OF  OXFORD. 


*'  Accuse  me  not 

Of  arrogance,  

If,  having  walked  with  Nature. 

And  ottered,  far  as  frailty  would  allow 

My  heart  a  daily  sacrifice  to  Truth, 

I  now  affirm  of  Nature  and  of  Truth, 

Whom  I  have  served,  that  their  Divinity 

Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  men, 

Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  uoul, 

Be  of  a  thousand  faculties  composed. 

And  twice  ten  thousand  interests,  do  yet  prize 

This  soul,  and  the  transcendent  universe 

No  more  than  as  a  mirror  that  reflects 

To  proud  Self-love  her  own  intelligence  " 

WORDSWORTH. 


PART  HI.  f 

LIBRARY 


NEW  YORK: 
JOHN  WILEY  &  SON,  PUBLISHERS, 
2  Clinton  Hall.  Astor  Place. 
1868. 


^50A  ■ 


TO  THE 

LANDSCAPE  ARTISTS  OF  ENGLAND, 
Ibis  tootk 

IS    RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED, 

BT  THEIR  SINr-fRE  ADMIRER, 

THE  AUTDOR, 


PART  111. 

OF    IDEAS    OF  BEAUTY. 

SECTION  I. 
OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


CHAPTER  I. 


OF  THE  RANK  AND  RELATIONS   OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


1  With  what 
care  *.lie  sub- 


Although  the  hasty  execution  and  controversial 
tone  of  the  former  portions  of  tliis  essay  have  been  j^ct  is  to  be  ap 
subjects  of  frequent  regret  to  the  writer,  yet  the  one  p^'^^^^*^*^- 
was  in  some  measure  excusable  in  a  ayoik  referred  to  a  temporary 
end,  and  the  other  unavoidable,  in  one  directed  against  particular 
opinions.  Nor  are  either  of  any  necessary  detriment  to  its  avail- 
ableness  as  a  foundation  for  more  careful  and  extended  survey,  in 
so  far  as  its  province  w^as  confined  to  the  assertion  of  obvious  and 
visible  facts,  the  verification  of  which  could  in  no  degree  be  de- 
pendent either  on  the  care  with  which  they  might  be  classed,  or 
(he  temper  in  which  they  were  regarded.  Not  so  with  respect  to 
tiie  investigation  now  before  us,  which,  being  not  of  things  out- 
ward, and  sensibly  demonstrable,  but  of  the  value  and  meaning  of 
mental  impressions,  must  be  entered  upon  with  a  modesty  and 
cautiousness  proportioned  to  the  difiiculty  of  determining  the  like- 
ness, or  community  of  such  impressions,  as  they  are  received  by 
different  men,  and  with  seriousness  proportioned  to  the  importance 
of  rightly  regarding  those  faculties  o^er  w^hich  we  have  moral 
power,  and  therefore  in  relation  to  which  we  assuredly  incur  a 

VOL.  II.  1 


2 


OF  THE  RANK  AND  RELATIONS  OF 


[part  ni. 


moral  responsibility.  There  is  not  the  thing  left  to  the  choice  of 
man  to  do  or  not  to  do,  but  there  is  some  sort  or  degree  of  duty  in- 
volved in  his  determination ;  and  by  how  much  the  more,  therefore, 
our  subject  becomes  embarrassed  by  the  cross  influences  of  vari- 
ously admitted  passion,  administered  discipline,  or  encouraged  af- 
fection, upon  the  minds  of  men,  by  so  mi'ch  the  more  it  becomes 
matter  of  weight  and  import  to  observe  hy  ^A'Uat  laws  we  should 
be  guided,  and  of  what  responsibilities  regardful,  in  all  that  we 
admit,  admirii;3ter,  or  encourage. 

§  2.  And  of  Nor  indeed  have  I  ever,  even  in  the  preceding  sec- 
ance  consider-  tions,  spokcu  mth  levity,  tliough  sometimes  perhaps 
with  rashness.  I  have  never  treated  the  subject  as 
other  than  demanding  heedful  and  serious  examination,  and  taking 
high  place  among  those  which  justify  as  they  reward  our  utmost 
ardor  and  earnestness  of  pursuit.  That  it  justifies  them  must  be 
my  present  task  to  prove ;  that  it  demands  them  has  never  been 
doubted.  Art,43roperly  so  called,  is  no  recreation;  it  cannot  be 
learned  at  spare  moments,  nor  pursued  when  we  have  nothing  bet- 
-ter  to  do.  It  is  no  handiwork  for  drawing-room  tables ;  no  relief 
of  the  ennui  of  boudoirs ;  it  must  be  imderstood  and  undertaken 
seriously  or  not  at  all.  To  advance  it  men's  lives  must  be  given, 
and  to  receive  it  their  hearts.  "  Le  peintre  Rubens  s'  amuse  a 
etre  ambassadeur,"  said  one  with  whom,  but  for  his  own  words, 
we  might  have  thought  that  effort  had  been  absorbed  in  power, 
and  the  labor  of  his  art  in  its  felicity. — "  E  faticoso  lo  studio  della 
pittura,  et  sempre  si  fa  il  mare  maggiore,"  said  he,  who  of  all  men 
was  least  likely  to  have  left  us  discouraging  report  of  anything 
that  majesty  of  intellect  could  grasp,  or  continuity  of  labor  over- 
come. But  that  this  labor,  the  necessity  of  which  in  all  ages  has 
been  most  frankly  admitted  by  the  greatest  men,  is  justifiable  in  a 
moral  point  of  view,  that  it  is  not  the  pouring  out  of  men's  lives 
upon  the  ground,  that  it  has  functions  of  usefulness  addressed  to 
the  weightiest  of  human  interests,  and  that  the  objects  of  it  have 
calls  upon  us  which  it  is  inconsistent  alike  with  our  human  dig- 
nity and  our  heavenward  duty  to  disobey — has  never  been  boldly 
asserted  nor  fairly  admitted ;  least  of  all  is  it  likely  to  be  so  in 
these  days  of  dispatch  and  display,  where  vanity,  on  the  one  side, 
supplies  the  place  of  that  love  of  art  which  is  the  only  effective 
*  Tintoret.  (Ridolfi.  Vita.J"^ 


sc.  I.  CH.  I.J 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


3 


patronagO;  and  on  the  other,  of  the  incorruptible  and  earnest  pride 
which  no  applause,  no  reprobation,  can  blind  to  its  short- comings, 
nor  beguile  of  its  hope. 

And  yet  it  is  in  the  expectation  of  obtaining  at  least  a  partial 
acknowledgment  of  this,  as  a  truth  influential  both  of  aim  and  con- 
duct, that  I  enter  upon  the  second  division  of  my  subject.  The 
time  I  have  already  devoted  to  the  task  I  should  have  considered 
altogether  inordinate,  and  that  which  I  fear  may  be  yet  required 
for  its  completion  would  have  been  cause  to  me  of  utter  discour- 
agement, but  that  the  object  I  propose  to  myself  is  of  no  partial 
nor  accidental  importance.  It  is  not  now  to  distinguish  between 
disputed  degrees  of  ability  in  individuals,  or  agreeableness  in  can- 
vases, it  is  not  now  to  expose  the  ignorance  or  defend  the  prin 
ciples  of  party  or  person.  It  is  to  summon  the  moral  energies  of 
the  nation  to  a  forgotten  duty,  to  display  the  use,  force,  and  func 
tion  of  a  great  body  of  neglected  sympathies  and  desires,  and  to 
elevate  to  its  healthy  and  beneficial  operation  that  art  Avhich,  be* 
ing  altogether  addressed  to  them,  rises  or  falls  with  their  varia- 
bleness of  vigor, — now  leading  them  with  TyrUean  fire,  now  sing- 
ing them  to  sleep  with  baby  murmurings. 

Only  as  I  fear  that  with  many  of  us  the  recommen-  „ 

...  .      §  3.  Thr  doubt- 

dation  of  our  own  favorite  pursuits  is  rooted  more  in  lui  fcvce  of  the 
conceit  of  ourselves,  than  affection  towards  others,  so  ^^^^  u^^^ity. 
that  sometimes  in  our  very  pointing  of  the  way,  we  had  rather 
that  the  intricacy  of  it  should  be  admired  than  unfolded,  wlience  a 
natural  distrust  of  sucli' recommendation  may  well  have  place  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  have  not  yet  perceived  any  value  in  the 
thing  praised,  and  because  also,  men  in  the  present  century  un- 
derstand the  word  Useful  in  a  strange  way,  or  at  least  (for  the 
word  has  been  often  so  accepted  from  the  beginning  of  time)  since 
in  tht-^e  days,  they  act  its  more  limited  meaning  farther  out,  and 
give  to  it  more  practical  weight  and  authority,  it  will  be  well  in 
the  outset  that  I  defir^e  exactly  what  kind  of  utility  I  mean  to  at- 
tribute to  art.  and  especially  to  that  branch  of  it  which  is  concernea 
with  tliose  impressions  of  external  beauty  whose  nature  it  is  oui 
present  object  to  discover. 

That  is  to  everything  created,  pre-eminently  useful,  §  4.  its  propci 
which  enables  it  rightly  and  fully  to  perform  the  func- 
tions  appointed  to  it  by  its  Creator.    Therefore,  that  we  may  deter- 


4 


OF  THE  RANK  AND  RELATIONS  OF 


[part  III 


mine  what  is  chiefly  useful  to  man,  it  is  necessary  first  to  determine 
the  use  of  man  himself. 

Man's  use  and  function  (and  let  him  who  will  not  grant  me  this 
follow  ine  no  farther,  for  this  I  purpose  always  to  assume)  is  to  be 
the  witness  of  the  glory  of  God,  and  to  advance  that  glory  by  liis 
reasonable  obedience  and  resultant  happiness. 

Whatever  enables  us  to  fulfil  this  function,  is  in  the  pure  and  first 
sense  of  the  word  useful  to  us.  Pre-eminently  therefore  whatevei 
sets  the  glory  of  God  more  brightly  before  us.  But  things  that 
only  help  us  to  exist,  are  in  a  secondary  and  mean  sense,  useful, 
or  rather,  if  they  be  looked  for  alone,  they  are  useless  and  worse, 
for  it  would  be  better  that  we  should  not  exist,  than  tka' 
should  guiltily  disappoint  the  purposes  of  existence. 
§  5  How  false  ^^^^  people  speak  in  this  working  age,  when 

ly  applied  in  they  spealv  from  their  hearts,  as  if  houses,  and  lands, 
and  food,  and  raiment  were  alone  useful,  and  as  if 
Bight,  thought,  and  admiration,^  were  all  profitless,  so  that  men 
insolently  call  themselves  Utilitarians,  who  would  turn,  if  they  had 
their  way,  themselves  and  their  race  into  vegetables ;  men  who 
think,  as  far  as  such  can  be  said  to  tliink,  that  the  meat  is  more 
than  the  life,  and  the  raiment  ^  than  the  body,  who  look  to  the  earth 
as  a  stable,  and  to  its  fruit  as  fodder ;  vinedressers  and  husband- 
men, who  love  the  corn  they  grind,  and  the  grapes  they  crush, 
better  than  the  gardens  of  the  angels  upon  the  slopes  of  Eden  ; 
heAvers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  who  think  that  the  wood 
they  hew  and  the  water  they  draw,  are  better  than  the  pine-forests 
that  cover  the  mountains  like  the  shadow  of  God,  and  than  the 
great  rivers  that  move  like  his  eternity.  And  so  comes  upon  us 
that  woe  of  the  preacher,  that  though  God  "  hath  made  everything 
beautiful  in  his  time,  also  he  hath  set  the  world  in  their  heart,  so 
that  no  man  can  find  out  the  work  that  God  maketh  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end." 

§  6.  The  evil  This  ISTebuchadnezzar  curse,  that  sends  us  to  grass 
of^^such'^^nter-  ^^^^  oxou,  soems  to  follow  but  too  closoly  on  the  excess 
connected  wUh  continuaucc  of  national  power  and  peace.  In  the 
national  power,  perplexities  of  nations,  in  their  struggles  for  existence, 
in  their  infancy,  their  impotence,  or  even  their  disorganization, 
they  have  higher  hopes  and  nobler  passions.  Out  of  thp  si;ffering 
♦  We  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love.    (Excurnon.  Look  W,^ 


8C.  I.  CH.  I.] 


THE  THEOith:TlC  FACULTY. 


5 


comes  the  serious  mind  ;  out  of  the  salvation,  the  grateful  heart ; 
out  of  the  endurance,  the  fortitude ;  out  of  the  deliverance,  the 
faith  ;  but  now  v/hen  they  have  learned  to  live  under  providence  of 
laws,  and  with  decency  and  justice  of  regard  for  each  other ;  and 
when  they  have  done  away  with  violent  and  external  sources  of 
suffering,  worse  evils  seem  arising  out  of  their  rest,  evils  that  vex 
less  and  mortify  more,  that  suck  the  blood  though  they  do  not 
shed  it,  and  ossify  the  heart  though  they  do  not  torture  it.  And 
deep  though  the  causes  of  thankfulness  must  be  to  every  people 
at  peace  with  others  and  at  unity  in  itself,  there  are  causes  of  fear 
also,  a  fear  greater  than  of  sword  and  sedition ;  that  dependence 
on  God  may  be  forgotten  because  the  bread  is  given  and  the  water 
is  sure,  that  gratitude  to  him  may  cease  because  his  constancy  of 
protection  has  taken  the  semblance  of  a  natural  law,  that  heavenly 
hope  may  grow  faint  amidst  the  full  fruition  of  the  world,  that 
selfishness  may  take  place  of  undemanded  devotion,  compassion 
be  lost  in  vain-glory,  and  love  in  dissimulation,^  that  enervation 
may  succeed  to  strength,  apathy  to  patience,  and  the  noise  of 
jesting  words  and  foulness  of  dark  thoughts,  to  the  earnest  purity 
of  the  girded  loins  and  the  burning  lamp.  About  the  river  of 
human  life  there  is  a  wintry  wind,  though  a  heavenly  sunshine ; 
the  iris  colors  its  agitation,  the  frost  fixes  upon  its  repose.  Let 
us  beware  that  our  rest  become  not  the  rest  of  stones,  which  so 
long  as  they  are  torrent- tossed,  and  thunder-stricken,  maintain 
their  majesty,  but  when  the  stream  is  silent,  and  the  storm  passed, 
suffer  the  grass  to  cover  them  and  the  lichen  to  feed  on  them,  and 
are  ploughed  down  into  dust. 

And  though  I  believe  that  we  have  salt  enough  of  §  7.  how  to  i>» 
ardent  and  holy  mind  amongst  us  to  keep  us  in  some 
measure  from  this  moral  decay,  yet  the  signs  of  it  must  be  watched 
with  anxiety,  in  all  matter  however  trivial,  in  all  directions  how- 
ever distant.  And  at  this  time,  when  the  iron  roads  are  tearing 
up  the  surface  of  Europe,  as  grape-shot  do  the  sea,  when  their 
great  sagene  is  drawing  and  twitching  the  ancient  frame  and 
strength  of  England  together,  contracting  all  its  various  life,  its 
rocky  arms  and  rural  heart,  into  a  narrow,  finite,  calculating  me- 
tropolis of  manufactures,  when  there  is  not  a  monument  through- 
out the  cities  of  Europe,  that  speaks  of  old  years  and  mighty  peo- 
*  Rom.  xii.  9. 


6 


OF  THE  RANK  AND   RELATIONS  OF 


[part  m. 


pie,  but  it  is  being  swept  away  to  build  cafes  and  gaming-hoiiges 
when  the  honor  of  God  is  thought  to  consist  in  the  poverty  of  his 
temple,  and  the  column  is  shortened,  and  the  pinnacle  sliattered, 
the  color  denied  to  the  casement,  and  the  marble  to  the  altar, 

*  The  extent  of  ravage  among  works  of  art,  or  of  historical  interest,  con- 
tinually committing  throughout  the  continent  may,  perhaps,  be  in  some  mea- 
sure estimated  from  the  following  facts,  to  which  the  experience  of  every  trav- 
eller may  add  indefinitely : — 

At  E  2aavois — The  magnificent  old  houses  supported  on  columns  of  work- 
manship (co  far  as  I  recollect)  unique  in  the  north  of  France,  at  the  corner  of 
the  market-pxace,  have  recently  been  destroyed  for  the  enlarging  of  some  iron- 
mongery and  grocery  warehouses.  The  arch  across  the  street  leading  to  the 
cathedral  has  been  destroyed  also,  for  what  purpose,  I  know  not. 

At  Rouen — The  last  of  the  characteristic  houses  on  the  quay  is  now  disap- 
pearing. When  I  w^as^  last  there,  I  witnessed  the  destruction  of  the  noble 
gothic  portal  of  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  whose  position  interfered  with  the 
courtyard  of  an  hotel ;  the  greater  part  of  the  ancient  churches  are  used  as 
smithies,  or  warehouses  for  goods.  So  also  at  Tours  (St.  Julien.)  One  of  the 
most  interesting  and  superb  pieces  of  middle-age  domestic  architecture  in  Eu- 
rope, opposite  the  west  front  of  the  cathedral,  is  occupied  as  a  cafe,  and  it3 
low^er  s^ory  concealed  by  painted  wainscotings ;  representing,  if  I  recollect 
right,  two})enny  rolls  surrounded  by  circles  of  admiring  cherubs. 

At  Geneva — The  wooden  projections  or  loggias  which  were  once  the  char- 
acteristic feature  of  the  city,  have  been  entirely  removed  within  the  last  ten 
years. 

hi  Pisa — The  old  Baptistery  is  at  this  present  time  in  process  of  being 
"  restored,"  that  is,  dashed  to  pieces,  and  coiimion  stone  painted  black  and 
varnished,  substituted  for  its  black  marble.  In  the  Campo  Santo,  the  invalu- 
able frescoes,  which  might  be  protected  by  merely  glazing  the  arcades,  are  left 
exposed  to  wind  and  weather.  While  I  was  there  last  year,  I  saw  a  monu- 
ment put  up  against  the  lower  part  of  the  wall,  to  some  private  person ;  the 
bricklayers  knocked  out  a  large  space  of  the  lower  brickwork,  with  what  bene- 
ficial effect  to  the  loose  and  blistered  stucco  on  which  the  frescoes  are  painted 
above,  I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine ;  inserted  the  tablet,  and  then  plastered 
over  the  marks  of  the  insertion,  destroying  a  portion  of  the  border  of  one  of  the 
paintings.  The  greater  part  of  Giotto's  "  Satan  before  God,"  has  been  de- 
stroyed by  the  recent  insertion  of  one  of  the  beams  of  the  roof 

The  toinl)  of  Antonio  Puccinello,  which  was  the  last  actually  put  up  against 
the  frescoes,  and  which  destroyed  the  terminal  subject  of  the  Giotto  series, 
Irears  date  1808. 

It  has  been  proposed,  (or  at  least  it  is  so  reported,)  that  the  church  of  L  a 
Spina  should  be  destroyed  in  order  to  widen  the  quay. 

At  Florence — One  of  its  most  important  and  characteristic  streets,  that  in 
which  stands  the  church  of  Or  San  Michele,  has  been  within  the  last  five 
years  entirely  destroyed  and  rebuilt  in  the  French  style  ;  consisting  now  almoel 
exclusively  of  shops  of  bijouterie  and  parfumerie.    Owing  to  this  directioB 


sc.  I.  CH.  I.] 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


7 


while  exchequers  are  exhausted  in  luxury  of  Loudoirs,  and  pride 
of  reception-rooms ;  when  we  ravage  without  a  pause  all  the  k»ve- 
liness  of  creation  ',vhich  God  in  giving  pronounced  good,  and  de- 
stroy without  a  thought  all  those  labors  which  men  have  given 
their  lives,  and  their  sons'  sons'  Hves  to  complete,  and  have  left 
for  a  legacy  to  all  their  kind,  a  legacy  of  more  than  their  hearts^ 
blood,  for  it  is  of  their  souls'  travail,  there  is  need,  bitter  need,  to 
bring  back,  if  we  may,  into  men's  minds,  that  to  live  is  nothing, 
unless  to  live  be  to  know  Him  by  whom  we  live,  and  that  he  is  not 

of  public  funds,  the  fronts  of  the  Duomo,  Santa  Croce,  St.  Lorenzo,  and  half 
the  others  in  Florence  remain  in  their  original  bricks. 

The  old  refectory  of  Santa  Croce,  containing  an  invaluable  Cenacolo,  if  not 
by  Giotto,  at  least  one  of  the  finest  works  of  his  school,  is  used  as  a  carpet 
manufactory.  In  order  to  see  the  fresco,  I  had  to  get  on  the  top  of  a  loom. 
The  cenacolo  (of  RafTaclle  1)  recently  discovered,  I  saw  when  the  refectory  it 
adorns  was  used  as  a  coach-house.  The  fresco,  which  gave  Raffaelle  the 
idea  of  the  Christ  of  the  Transfiguration,  is  in  an  old  wood  shed  at  San 
Miniato,  concealed  behind  a  heap  of  faggots.  In  June,  last  year,  I  saw  Gen- 
tile da  Fabriano's  picture  of  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  belonging  to  the 
Academy  of  Florence,  put  face  upmost  in  a  shower  of  rain  in  an  open  cart ; 
on  my  suggesting  the  possibility  of  the  rain  hurting  it,  an  old  piece  of  mat- 
ting was  thrown  over  its  face,  and  it  was  wheeled  away  "  per  essere  pulita." 
What  fate  this  signified,  is  best  to  be  discovered  from  the  large  Perugino  in  the 
Academy ;  whose  divine  distant  landscape  is  now  almost  concealed  by  the 
mass  of  French  ultramarine,  painted  over  it  apparently  with  a  common  house 
brush,  by  the  picture  cleaner. 

Not  to  detain  the  reader  by  going  tlirough  the  cities  of  Italy,  I  will  only 
further  mention,  that  at  Padua,  the  rain  beats  throuffh  the  west  window  of  the 
Arena  chapel,  and  runs  down  orer  the  frescoes.  T!  at  at  Venice,  in  Septem- 
ber last,  I  saw  three  buckets  s(  t  in  the  st  uola  di  San  Rocco  to  catch  tlie  rain 
which  came  throup^k  the  canvasses  of  Tintorct  on  the  roof;  and  that  while  the 
old  works  of  art  are  left  thus  unprotected,  the  palaces  are  being  restored  in 
the  follov/ing  modes.  The  English  residents  knock  out  bow  wnulows  to  see 
up  and  down  the  canal.  The  Italians  paint  ail  the  rnarhlc  white  or  cream 
color,  stucco  the  fronts,  and  paint  them  in  ])luc  and  wliite  stripes  to  imitate 
alabaster.  (This  has  been  done  with  Danieli's  hotel,  with  the  north  angle  of 
the  church  of  St.  Mark,  there  replacing  the  real  alabasters  which  have  been 
torn  down,  with  a  no])le  old  house  in  St.  Mark's  place,  and  v/ith  several  in  the 
narrow  canals.)  The  marbles  of  St.  Marks,  and  carvings,  are  being  scraped 
down  to  make  them  look  bright — the  lower  arcade  of  the  Doge's  palace  is 
whitewashed — the  entrance  porch  is  being  restored — the  operation  having 
already  proceeded  so  far  as  the  knoclcing  off  of  the  heads  of  the  old  statues— 
an  iron  raihng  painted  black  and  yellow  has  been  put  round  the  court. 
Faded  tapestries,  and  lottery  tickets  (the  latter  for  the  benefit  of  charitable  in- 
Btitutions)  are  exposed  for  sale  in  the  c  ^'incil  chambers. 


8 


OF  THE   RANK   AND   RELATIONS  OF 


[part  III. 


to  be  known  by  marriiiof  bis  fair  works,  and  blotting'  out  tbe  evi- 
dence  of  bis  influences  ii[)on  bis  creatures,  not  amid  tbe  burry  of 
crowds  and  crasb  of  innovation,  but  in  solitary  places,  and  out  of 
tbe  glowing  intelligences  wbicb  be  gave  to  men  of  old.  He  did 
not  teacb  tbem  bow  to  build  for  glory  and  for  beauty,  be  did  not 
give  tbem  tbe  fearless,  faitbful,  inberited  energies  tbat  worked 
on  and  down  from  deatli  to  deatb,  generation  after  generation, 
tbat  we,  foul  and  sensual  as  we  are,  migbt  give  tbe  carved  work 
of  tbeir  poured-out  spirit  to  tbe  axe  and  the  bammer ;  be  bas  not 
cloven  tbe  eartb  witb  rivers,  tbat  tbeir  wbite  wild  waves  mio-bt 
turn  wbeels  and  pusb  paddles,  nor  turned  it  up  under  as  it  were 
fire,  tbat  it  migbt  beat  wells  and  cure  diseases  ;  be  brings  not  up 
bis  quails  by  tbe  east  wind,  only  to  let  tbem  fall  in  flesb  about  tbe 
camp  of  men  :  be  bas  not  beaped  tbe  rocks  of  tbe  mountain  only 
for  tbe  quarry,  nor  clotbeJ  tbe  grass  of  tbe  field  only  for  tbe  oven. 

All  science  and  all  art  may  be  divided  into  tbat 
the  pursuus  of  wbicb  is  subscrvicut  to  life,  and  wbicb  is  tbe  object  of 

men  into   sub-   .  .  •ii'  i 

servient  and     ]t.    As  subscrvicut  to  life,  or  practical,  their  results 

objective.  . 

are,  in  tbe  common  sense  of  tbe  word,  useful.  As  tbe 
object  of  life  or  tbeoretic,  they  are,  in  tbe  common  sense,  useless; 
and  yet  tbe  step  between  practical  and  tbeoretic  science  is  tbe 
step  between  tbe  miner  and  tbe  geologist,  tbe  apothecary  and  tbe 
cbemist;  and  tbe  step  between  practical  and  tbeoretic  art  is  tbat 
between  tbe  bricklayer  and  tbe  architect,  between  tbe  plumber  and 
tbe  artist,  and  this  is  a  step  allowed  on  all  bands  to  be  from  less  to 
greater;  sb  that  the  so-called  useless  part  of  each  profession  does 
by  tbe  authoritative  and  rigbt  instinct  of  mankind  assume  tbe  su- 
perior and  more  noble  place,  even  tbough  books  be  sometimes 
written,  and  tbat  by  writers  of  no  ordinary  mind,  wbicb  assume 
tbat  a  cbemist  is  rewarded  for  tbe  years  of  toil  wbicb  have  traced 
tbe  greater  part  of  tbe  combinations  of  matter  to  tbeir  ultimate 
atoms,  by  discovering  a  cheap  way  of  refining  sugar,  and  date  the 
eminence  of  tbe  philosopher,  wbose  life  bas  been  spent  in  tbe  in- 
vestigation of  tbe  laws  of  ligbt,  from  tbe  time  of  bis  inventing  an 
improvement  in  spectacles. 

But  tbe  common  consent  of  men  proves  and  accepts  tbe  proposi- 
tion, tbat  whatever  part  of  any  pursuit  ministers  to  tbe  bodily 
comforts,  and  admits  of  material  uses,  is  ignoble,  and  whatsoever 
p:ii"t  is  addressed  to  the  mind  only,  is  noble  ;  and  that  geology 


BC.  I.  CH.  I.] 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY, 


9 


does  better  in  reclothing  dry  bones  and  revealing  lost  creations, 
than  in  tracing  veins  of  lead  and  beds  of  iron ;  astronomy  bettei 
in  opening  to  ns  the  houses  of  heaven  than  in  teaching  navigation ; 
botany  better  in  displaying  structure  than  in  expressing  juices ; 
surgery  better  in  investigating  organization  than  in  setting  limbs ; 
only  it  is  ordained  that,  for  our  encouragement,  every  step  wo 
make  in  the  more  exalted  range  of  science  adds  something  also  to 
its  practical  applicabilities  ;  that  all  the  great  phenomena  of  na- 
ture, the  knowledge  of  which  is  desired  by  the  angels  only,  by  us 
partly,  as  it  reveals  to  farther  vision  the  being  and  the  glory  of 
Him  in  whom  they  rejoice  and  we  live,  dispense  yet  such  kind  in- 
fluences and  so  much  of  material  blessing  as  to  be  joyfully  felt  by 
all  inferior  creatures,  and  to  be  desired  by  them  with  such  single 
desire  as  the  imperfection  of  their  nature  may  admit  that  the 
strong  torrents  which,  in  their  own  gladness  fill  the  hills  with  hol- 
low thunder  and  the  vales  with  winding  light,  have  yet  their 
bounden  charge  of  field  to  feed  and  barge  to  bear ;  that  the  fierce 
flames  to  which  the  Alp  owes  its  upheaval  and  the  volcano  its 
terror,  temper  for  us  the  metal  vein  and  quickening  spring ;  and 
that  for  our  incitement,  I  say  not  our  reward,  for  knowledge  is  its 
own  reward,  herbs  have  their  healing,  stones  their  preciousness, 
and  stars  their  times. 

It  would  appear,  therefore,  that  those  pursuits  which  §  9.  Their  reia 
are  altogether  theoretic,  whose  results  are  desirable  or  ^^^^  ciJgiiities. 
admirable  in  themselves  and  for  their  own  sake,  and  in  which  no 
farther  end  to  which  their  productions  or  discoveries  are  referred, 
can  interrupt  the  contemplation  of  things  as  they  are,  by  the  en- 
deavor to  discover  of  what  selfish  uses  they  are  capable,  (and  of 
this  order  are  painting  and  sculpture,)  ought  to  take  rank  above 
all  pursuits  which  have  any  taint  in  them  of  subserviency  to  life, 
in  so  far  as  all  such  tendency  is  the  sign  of  less  eternal  and  less 
holy  function.!  And  such  rank  these  two  sublime  ^  ^o.  iiow  re- 
arts  would  indeed  assume  in  the  minds  of  nations,  ^^^.^^'^  through 

'   erring  notionfi 

and  become  objects  of  correspondino^  efforts,  but  for  of  the  contem- 

^  .  plative  fiQd  mi- 

two  fatal  and  wide-spread  errors  respecting  the  great  aginative  facui- 
faculties  of  mind  concerned  in  them. 

*  Hooker,  Eccl.  Pol.  Book  I.  chap.  ii.  §  2. 

t  I  do  not  assert  that  the  accidental  utility  of  a  theoretic  pursuit,  as  of 
botany  for  instance,  in  any  w0  degrades  it,  tiiough  it  cannot  be  considered 

t 


10 


RANK  AND  RELATIONS   OF  THEORETIC   FACULTY.    [PART  III, 


The  first  of  these,  or  the  theoretic  faculty,  is  concerned  with 
/he  moral  perception  and  appreciation  of  idea3  of  beauty.  And 
the  error  respecting  it  is  the  considering  and  calling  it  aesthetic; 
degrading  it  to  a  mere  operation  of  sense,  or  perhaps  worse,  ol 
custom,  so  that  the  arts  which  appeal  to  it  sink  into  a  mere  amuse- 
ment, ministers  to  morbid  sensibilities,  ticklers  and  fanners  of  the 
soul's  sleep. 

The  second  great  faculty  is  the  imaginative,  which  the  mind 
exercises  in  a  certain  mode  of  regarding  or  combining  the  ideas 't 
has  received  from  external  nature,  and  the  operations  of  which  be- 
come in  their  turn  objects  of  the  theoretic  faculty  to  other  minds. 

And  the  error  respecting  this  faculty  is,  that  its  function  is  one 
of  falsehood,  that  its  operation  is  to  exhibit  things  as  they  are  not^ 
and  that  in  so  doing  it  mends  the  works  of  God. 

^, .  ^  Now,  as  these  are  the  two  faculties  to  which  I  shall 
§  11.  Object  of  '      ,  ^      -,  . 

the  present  sec-  have  occasiou  Constantly  to  reier  durmg  that  exami- 
nation of  the  ideas  of  beauty  and  relation  on  which  we 
are  now  entering,  because  it  is  only  as  received  and  treated  by 
these,  that  those  ideas  become  exalted  and  profitable,  it  becomes 
necessary  for  me,  in  the  outset,  to  explain  their  power  and  define 
their  sphere,  and  to  vindicate,  in  the  system  of  our  nature,  their 
true  place  for  the  intellectual  lens  and  moral  retina  by  which  and 
on  which  our  informing  thoughts  are  concentrated  and  represented. 

as  elevating  it.  But  essential  utility,  a  purpose  to  which  the  pursuit  is  in 
some  measure  referred,  as  in  architecture,  invariably  degrades,  because  then 
the  theoretic  part  of  the  art  is  comparatively  lost  sight  of;  and  thus  architec- 
ture takes  a  level  below  that  of  sculpture  or  painting,  even  when  the  powers 
of  mind  developed  in  it  are  of  the  same  high  order. 

When  we  pronounce  the  name  of  Giotto,  our  venerant  thoughts  are  at  As- 
Bisi  and  Padua,  before  they  climb  the  Campanile  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore. 
And  he  who  would  raise  the  ghost  of  Michael  Angelo,  must  haunt  the  Sistinc 
and  St,  Lorenzo,  not  St.  Peter's. 


CHAPTER  IT. 


OF   THE  TIlEOREnC  FACULTY  AS   CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  0^ 

SENSE. 

I  PROCEED  tlierefore  first,  to  examine  the  nature  of     _   _  . 

'  §  1.  Exp.ana 

what  I  have  called  the  Theoretic  faculty,  and  to  ius-  tio a  of  the  term 

V  '         p  theoretic."  - 

tify  my  substitution  of  the  term     theoretic  lor 

aesthetic,  which  is  the  one  commonly  employed  with  reference 

to  it, 

Now  the  term  "  aesthesis"  properly  signifies  mere  sensual  per- 
ception of  the  outward  qualities  and  necessary  effects  of  bodies, 
in  which  sense  only,  if  we  would  arrive  at  any  accurate  conclu- 
sions on  this  difficult  subject,  it  should  always  be  used.  But  I 
wholly  deny  that  the  impressions  of  beauty  are  in  any  way 
sensual, — they  are  neither  sensual  nor  intellectual,  but  moral,  and 
for  the  faculty  receiving  them,  whose  difference  from  mere  per- 
ception I  shall  immediately  endeavor  to  explain,  no  term  can  be 
more  accurate  or  convenient  than  that  employed  by  the  Greeks, 
"theoretic,"  which  I  pray  permission,  therefore,  always  to  use, 
and  to  call  the  operation  of  the  faculty  itself,  Theoria. 

Let  us  begin  at  the  lowest  point,  and  observe,  first,  §  2!  Of  tho  dif- 
what  differences  of  dignity  may  exist  betv.^een  differ-  fn^p^JeasuiVs^of 
ent  kinds  of  aesthetic  or  sensual  pleasure,  properly 
so  called. 

Now  it  is  evident  that  the  being  common  to  brutes,  or  pecuhar 
to  man,  can  alone  be  no  rational  test  of  inferiority,  or  dignity  in 
pleasures.  We  must  not  assume  that  man  is  the  nobler  animal, 
and  then  deduce  the  nobleness  of  his  delights  ;  but  we  must 
prove  the  nobleness  of  tlie  delights,  and  thence  the  nobleness  of 
the  animal.  The  dignity  of  affection  is  no  way  lessened  because 
a  large  measure  of  it  may  be  found  in  lower  animals,  neither  is 
the  vileness  of  gluttony  and  lust  abated  because  they  are  common 
lo  men.    It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  there  is  a  standard  of  dignity 


12 


OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY 


[part  ,'TT 


in  the  pleasures  and  passions  themselves,  by  which  we  also  class 
the  creatures  capable  of,  or  suffering  them. 

§  3.  Use  of  the  The  first  great  distinction,  we  observe,  is  that  noted 
^a^^and^in^m'-  Aristotle,  that  men  are  called  temperate  and 
perate.  intemperate  with  regard  to  some,  and  not  so  with 

respect  to  others,  and  that  those,  with  respect  to  which  they  art 
so  called,  are,  by  common  consent,  held  to  be  the  vilest.  But 
Aristotle,  though  exquisitely  subtle  in  his  notation  of  facts,  dues 
not  frequently  give  us  satisfactory  account  of,  or  reason  for  them 
Content  v/itli  stating  the  fact  of  these  pleasures  being  held  the 
lowest,  he  shows  not  why  this  estimation  of  them  is  just,  and 
confuses  the  reader  by  observing  casually  respecting  the  higher 
pleasures,  what  is  indeed  true,  but  appears  at  first  opposed  to  his 
own  position,  namely,  that  "  men  may  be  conceived,  as  also  in 
these  taking  pleasure,  either  rightly,  or  more  or  less  than  is 
right."^  Which  being  so,  and  evident  capability  of  excess  or 
defect  existing  in  pleasures  of  this  higher  order,  we  ought  to  havs 
been  told  how  it  happens  that  men  are  not  called  intemperate 
when  they  indulge  in  excess  of  this  kind,  and  what  is  that  differ- 
ence in  the  nature  of  the  pleasure  which  diminishes  the  criminal- 
ity of  its  excess.    This  let  us  attempt  to  ascertain. 

Men  are  held  intemperate  (uxoXaaioi,)  only  when 

§  4.  Right  use  ^  r  \  '/  J 

of  the  term    their  dcsircs  overcome  or  prevent  the  action  of  their 

"  intemperate."  •    i      i   •  ■  ^ 

reason,  and  they  are  mcleed  mtemperate  m  tlie  exact 
degree  in  which  such  prevention  or  interference  takes  place,  and 
so  are  actually  axo^aarot,  in  many  instances,  and  with  respect  to 
many  resolves,  which  lower  not  the  world's  estim.ation  of  their 
temperance.  For  so  long  as  it  can  be  supposed  that  the  reason 
has  acted  imperfectly  owing  to  its  own  imperfection,  or  to  the 
imperfection  of  the  premises  submitted  to  it,  (as  when  men  give 
an  inordinate  preference  to  their  own  pursuits,  because  they  can- 
not, in  the  nature  of  things,  have  sufficiently  experienced  the 
goodness  and  benefit  of  others,)  and  so  long  as  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed that  men  have  referred  to  reason  in  what  they  do,  and 
have  not  suffered  its  orders  to  be  disobeyed  through  mere  impulse" 
and  desire,  (though  those  orders  may  be  full  of  error  owing  to  th< 
reason's  own  feebleness,)  so  long  men  are  not  held  intemj^errite 
But  when  it  is  palpably  evident  that  the  reason  cannot  have  erroc' 

*  0)5  dr.i^  K(ii  KaO^  vTC£pPo\T]v  ml  IWeiipiv. 


8C.  I.  CH.  II.]     AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  OF  SENSE. 


13 


but  that  its  voice  has  been  deadened  or  disobeyed,  and  that  the 
reasonable  creature  has  been  draofo^ed  dead  round  the  walls  of  his 
nwn  citadel  by  mere  passion  and  impulse, — then,  and  then  only, 
men  are  of  all  held  intemperate.  And  this  is  evidently  the  case 
with  respect  to  inordinate  indulgence  in  pleasures  of  touch  and 
taste,  for  these,  being  destructive  in  their  continuance  not  only  of 
all  other  pleasures,  but  of  the  very  sensibilities  by  Avhich  they 
th(!mselves  are  received,  and  as  this  penalty  is  actually  known  and 
experienced  by  those  indulging  in  them,  so  that  the  reason  cannot 
but  pronounce  right  respecting  their  perilousness,  there  is  no 
palHation  of  the  wrong  choice ;  and  the  man,  as  utterly  incapable 
Df  will,"^'  is  called  intemperate,  or  uy^olddrog. 

It  would  be  well  if  the  reader  would  for  himself  follow  out  thi? 
subject,  Avhich  it  would  be  irrelevant  here  to  pursue  farther, 
observing  how  a  certain  degree  of  intemperance  is  suspected  and 
attributed  to  men  witli  respect  to  higher  impulses  ;  as,  for  instance, 
in  the  case  of  anger,  or  any  other  passion  criminally  indulged,  and 
yet  is  not  so  attributed,  as  in  the  case  of  sensual  pleasures  ; 
because  in  anger  the  reason  is  supposed  not  to  have  had  time  to 
operate,  and  to  be  itself  affected  by  the  presence  of  the  passion, 
which  seizes  the  man  involuntarily  and  before  he  is  aware ; 
whereas,  in  the  case  of  the  sensual  pleasures,  the  act  is  deliberate, 
and  determined  on  beforehand,  in  direct  defiance  of  reason. 
Nevertheless,  if  no  precaution  be  taken  against  immoderate  anger, 
and  the  passions  gain  upon  the  man,  so  as  to  be  evidently  wilful 
and  unrestrained,  and  admitted  contrary  to  all  reason,  we  begin 
to  look  upon  him  as,  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word,  intemperate, 
or  un6X(xaiog^  and  assign  to  him,  in  consequence,  his  place  among 
the  beasts,  as  definitely  as  if  he  had  yielded  to  the  pleasurable 
temptations  of  touch  or  taste. 

We  see,  then,  that  the  primal  ground  of  inferiority  §  5.  Grounds 
in  these  pleasures  is  that  which  ^?ro?T5  their  indlul-  thr^'^pieasires 
gence  to  be  contrary  to  reason;  namely,  their  des-  pts'oMntem- 
tructiveness  upon  prolongation,  and  th^^ir  incapability  p«rance. 
of  cc-existing  continually  with  other  delights  or  peifections  of  the 
system. 

And  this  incapability  of  continuance  directs  us  to  the  second 
cause  of  their  inferiority ;  namely,  that  they  are  gi\  en  to  we  as 
♦  Comp.  Hooker,  Eccl.  Pol.  Book  i.  chup.  8. 


14  OF  THE  THKOJiF/nC   FACULTY  [pART  IH 

subservient  to  life,  as  instruments  of  our  preservation — compelling 
us  to  seek  the  things  necessary  to  our  being,  and  that,  therefore, 
when  this  their  function  is  fully  performed,  they  ought  to  hav^e  an 
end  ;  and  can  be  only  artificially,  and  under  high  penalty,  pro- 
longed. But  the  pleasures  of  sight  and  hearing  are  given  as 
gifts.  They  answer  not  any  purposes  of  mere  existence,  for  the 
distinction  of  all  that  is  useful  or  dangerous  to  us  might  be  made, 
and  often  is  made,  by  the  eye,  without  its  receiving  the  slightest 
pleasure  of  sight.  We  might  have  learned  to  distinguish  fruits 
and  grain  from  flowers,  without  having  any  superior  pleasure  in 
the  aspect  of  the  latter.  And  the  ear  might  have  learned  to 
distinguish  the  sounds  that  communicate  ideas,  or  to  recognize 
intimations  of  elemental  danger  without  perceiving  either  music 
in  the  voice,  or  majesty  in  the  thunder.  And  as  these  pleasures 
have  no  function  to  perform,  so  there  is  no  limit  to  their  continu- 
ance in  the  accomplishment  of  their  end,  for  they  are  an  end  in 
themselves,  5-nd  so  may  be  perpetual  with  all  of  us — being  in  no 
way  destructive,  but  rather  increasing  in  exquisiteness  by  repe- 
tition. 

^   ^  . ,  Herein,  then,  we  find  very  sufficient  .oTOund  for  the 

of  higher  rank  hio'her  estimation  of  these  delights,  first,  in  their 

in  pleasures  of        .  I'l  -ii  i  n* 

sight  and  hear-  bcuig  eternal  and  mexhaxistible,  and  secondly,  m 
their  being  evidently  no  means  or  instrument  of  life, 
but  an  object  of  life.  Now  in  whatever  is  an  object  of  life,  in 
whatever  may  be  infinitely  and  for  itself  desired,  we  may  be  sure 
there  is  something  of  divine,  for  God  will  not  mak3  anything  an 
object  of  life  to  his  creatures  which  does  not  point  to,  or  partake 
of.  Himself.  And  so,  though  Ave  were  to  regard  the  pleasures  of 
sight  merely  as  the  highest  of  sensual  pleasures,  and  though  they 
were  of  rare  occurrence,  and,  when  coaurring,  isolated  and  im- 
perfect, there  would  still  be  a  supernatural  cliaracter  about  tliem., 
owing  to  their  permanence  and  self-sufficiency,  vfhere  no  other 
sensual  pleasures  are  permanent  or  self-sufficient.  But  when, 
instead  of  being  scattered,  interiuptcd,  or  chance-distribute  1,  tliey 
are  gathered  together,  and  so  arranged  to  enhance  each  otaer  as 
by  chance  they  could  not  be,  there  is  caused  by  them  not  cnlv  a 
feeling  of  strong  affection  towards  the  object  in  which  they  exist, 
but  n  perception  of  purpose  and  adaptation  of  it  to  our  desires ; 


/ 

sc.  I.  CII.  II.J     AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  OF  SENSE. 


15 


a  perception,  therefore,  of  the  immediate  operation  of  the  Intelh*- 
gence  which  so  fornied  us,  and  so  feeds  us. 

Out  of  which  perception  arise  joy,  admiration,  and  gratitude. 

Now  the  mere  animal  consciousness  of  the  pleasantness  I  call 
aesthesis ;  but  the  exulting,  reverent,  and  grateful  perception  of 
it  I  call  tlieoria.  For  this,  and  this  only,  is  the  full  comprehen- 
sion and  contemplation  of  the  beautiful  as  a  gift  of  Grod,  a  gift 
not  necessary  to  our  being,  but  added  to,  and  elevating  it,  and 
twofold,  first  of  the  desire,  and  secondly  of  the  thing  desired. 

And  that  this  joyfulness  and  reverence  are  a  neces-  §  7.  how  the 
iary  part  of  theoretic  pleasure  is  very  evident  v/hen  may'^b^Tievat- 
we  consider  that,  by  the  presence  of  these  feelings, 
even  the  lower  and  more  sensual  pleasures  may  be  rendered  the- 
oretic. Thus  Aristotle  has  subtly  noted,  that  we  call  not  men 
intemperate  so  much  with  respect  to  the  scents  of  roses  or  herb- 
perfumes  as  of  ointments  and  of  condiments,"  (though  the  reason 
that  he  gives  for  this  be  futile  enough.)  For  the  fact  is,  that  of 
scents  artificially  prepared  the  extreme  desire  is  intemperance, 
but  of  natural  and  God-given  scents,  which  take  their  part  in  the 
harmony  and  pleasantness  of  creation,  there  can  hardly  be  intem- 
perance ;  not  that  there  is  any  absolute  difference  between  the 
two  kinds,  but  that  these  are  likely  to  be  received  with  gratitude 
and  joyfulness  rather  than  those,  so  that  we  despise  the  seeking 
of  essences  and  unguents,  but  not  the  sowing  of  violets  along  our 
garden  banks.  But  all  things  may  be  elevated  by  affection,  as 
the  spikenard  of  Mary,  and  in  the  Song  of  Solomon,  the  myrrh 
upon  the  handles  of  the  lock,  and  that  of  Isaac  concerning  his 
son.  And  the  general  law  for  all  these  pleasures  is,  that  when 
sought  in  the  abstract  and  ardently,  they  are  foul  things,  but 
when  received  with  thankfulness  and  with  reference  to  God's 
glory,  they  become  theoretic ;  and  so  I  can  find  something  divine 
in  the  sweetness  of  wild  fruits,  as  well  as  in  the  pleasantness  of 
the  pure  air,  and  the  tenderness  of  its  natural  perfumes  that  come 
aad  go  as  they  list. 

It  will  be  understood  why  I  formerly  said  in  the  ^  g  ^^^^ 
chapter  respectincr  ideas  of  beauty,  that  those  ideas  Wuty  how  ea- 

,         1  .  p  1        ^  .      n  T  sentially  moraL 

were  the  subject  01  moral  and  not  01  nitellectual,  nor 

altogether  of  sensual  perception ;  and  why  I  spoke  of  the  pleasures 

connected  with  them  as  derived  from  "those  material  sources 


16 


OF  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY 


[part  III 


which  are  a^^reeable  to  our  moral  nature  in  its  purity  and  perfec- 
tion." For,  as  it  is  necessary  to  the  existence  of  an  idea  of  beauty, 
that  tlie  sensual  pleasure  which  may  be  its  basis,  should  be  ac- 
companied first  with  joy,  then  with  love  of  the  object,  then  with 
the  perception  of  kindness  in  a  superior  Intelligence,  finally  with 
thankfulness  and  veneration  towards  that  Intelligence  itself,  and  as 
no  idea  can  be  at  all  considered  as  in  any  way  an  idea  of  beauty, 
an  til  it  be  made  up  of  these  emotions,  any  more  than  we  can  be 
said  to  have  an  idea  of  a  letter  of  which  we  perceive  the  perfume 
and  the  fair  writing,  without  understanding  the  contents  of  it,  or. 
intern  of  it ;  and  as  these  emotions  are  in  no  way  resultant  from, 
nor  obtainable  by,  any  operation  of  the  intellect,  it  is  evident  that 
the  sansation  of  beauty  is  not  sensual  on  the  one  hand,  nor  is  i1 
intellectual  on  the  other,  but  is  dependent  on  a  pure,  right,  and 
open  state  of  the  heart,  both  for  its  truth  and  for  its  intensity,  in- 
somuch that  even  the  right  after  action  of  the  intellect  upon  facts 
of  beauty  so  apprehended,  is  dependent  on  the  acuteness  of  the 
heart  feeling  about  them ;  and  thus  the  Apostolic  words  come 
true,  in  this  minor  respect  as  in  all  others,  that  men  are  alienated 
from  the  life  of  God,  through  the  ignorance  that  is  in  them,  hav- 
ing the  understanding  darkened  because  of  the  hardness  of  their 
hearts,  and  so  being  past  feeling,  give  themselves  up  to  lasciv- 
iousness ;  for  we  do  indeed  see  constantly  that  men  having  natu- 
rally acute  perceptions  of  the  beautiful,  yet  not  receiving  it  with 
a  pure  heart,  nor  into  their  hearts  at  all,  never  comprehend  it,  nor 
receive  good  from  it,  but  make  it  a  mere  minister  to  their  desires, 
and  accompaniment  and  seasoning  of  lower  sensual  pleasures,  until 
all  their  emotions  take  the  same  earthly  stamp,  and  the  sense  of 
beauty  sinks  into  the  servant  of  lust. 

.^or  is  what  the  world  commonly  understands  by 

1 9.  How  degra-     ,  ,  .       .         /.  i  •  i  i  ' 

led  by  heart-  the  Cultivation  of  taste,  anything  more  or  better  than 
.ess  reception.  ^^.^^  l^ast  in  times  of  corrupt  and  over-pampered 
civilization,  when  men  build  palaces  and  plant  groves  and  gather 
luxuries,  that  they  and  their  devices  may  hang  in  the  corners  ol 
the  world  like  fine-spun  cobwebs,  with  greedy,  puffed-up,  spider- 
like lusts  in  the  middle.  And  this,  which  in  Christian  times  is 
the  abuse  and  corruption  of  the  sense  of  beauty,  was  in  that  Pa- 
gan life  of  which  St.  Paul  speaks,  little  less  than  the  essence  of 
it,  and  the  best  they  had ;  for  I  know  not  that  of  the  expressions 


.  HC,  1.  CH.  II.]     AS  CONCERNED  WITH  PLEASURES  OF  SENSE. 

of  affection  towards  external  nature  to  be  found  among  Heatlien 
writers,  there  are  any  of  which  the  balance  and  leading  thought 
cleaves  not  towards  the  sensual  parts  of  her.  Her  beneiicence 
they  sought,  and  her  power  they  shunned,  her  teaching  through 
both,  they  understood  never.  The  pleasant  influences  of  soft 
winds  and  ringing  streamlets,  and  shady  coverts ;  of  the  violet 
couch,  and  plane-tree  shade, ^  they  received,  perhaps,  in  a  more 
noble  way  than  we,  but  they  found  not  anything  except  fear,  upon 
the  bare  mountain,  or  in  the  ghostly  glen.  The  Hybla  heather 
thbj  loved  more  for  its  sweet  hives  than  its  purple 

1  -n  ^         r^i     •      -  i  •  i  i  i      §  How  ex- 

hues.  iiut  the  Christian  theoria  seeks  not,  though  aited  by  affec- 
it  accepts,  and  touches  with  its  own  purity,  what  the 
Epicurean  sought,  but  finds  its  food  and  the  objects  of  its  love 
everyv/here,  in  what  is  harsh  and  fearful,  as  Avell  as  what  is  kind, 
nay,  even  in  all  that  seems  coarse  and  commonplace ;  seizing  that 
which  is  good,  and  delighting  more  sometimes  at  finding  its  table 
spread  in  strange  places,  and  in  the  presence  of  its  enemies,  and 
its  honey  coming  out  of  the  rock,  than  if  all  were  harmonized  into 
a  less  wondrous  pleasure ;  hating  only  what  is  self-sighted  and 
insolent  of  men's  work,  despising  all  that  is  not  of  God,  unless  re- 
minding it  of  God,  yet  able  to  find  evidence  of  him  still,  where  all 
stems  forgetful  of  him,  and  to  turn  that  into  a  witness  of  his  work- 
ing which  was  meant  to  obscure  it,  and  so  with  clear  and  unof- 
fended  sight  beholding  him  forever,  according  to  the  written  pro* 
oiise, — Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God. 

♦  Plato.  Phaedrus,  ^  9. 


r 


CHAPTER  III. 


OF  ACCURACY  AJs^D  INACCURACY  IN  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENOE. 

§  1.  By  what  HiTHERTO  vve  have  obscrved  only  the  distmctions 
heaith^^of  the  dignity  among  pleasures  of  sense,  considered 
uityTo^^be  de-  li'^^i'^lj  such,  and  the  way  in  which  any  of  them 
termined?  ^nay  become  theoretic  in  being  received  with  right 
feeling. 

But  as  we  go  farther,  and  examine  the  distinctive  nature  of 
ideas  of  beauty,  we  shall,  I  beheve,  perceive  something  in  them 
besides  aesthetic  pleasure,  which  attests  a  more  important  func- 
tion belonging  to  them  than  attaches  to  other  sensual  ideas,  and 
exhibits  a  more  exalted  character  in  the  faculty  by  which  they 
are  received.  And  this  was  what  I  alluded  to,  when  I  said  in 
the  chapter  already  referred  to  (§  1,)  that  we  may  indeed  per- 
ceive, as  far  as  we  are  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  God,  that 
we  have  been  so  constructed  as  in  a  healthy  state  of  mind  to  de- 
rive pleasure  from  whatever  things  are  illustrative  of  that  nature." 

This  point  it  is  necessary  now  farther  to  develop. 

Our  first  inquiry  must  evidently  be,  liow  we  are  authorized  to 
affirm  of  any  man's  mind,  respecting  impressions  of  sight,  that  it 
is  in  a  healthy  state  or  otherwise.  What  canon  or  test  is  there 
by  which  we  may  determine  of  these  impressions  that  they  are  or 
are  not  rightly  esteemed  beautiful.  To  what  authority,  when  men 
are  at  variance  with  each  other  on  this  subject,  shall  it  be  deputed 
to  judge  which  is  right  ?  or  is  there  any  such  authority  or  canon 
at  all  ? 

For  it  does  not  at  first  appear  easy  to  prove  that  men  ought  to 
like  one  thing  rather  than  another,  and  although  this  is  granted 
generally  by  men's  speaking  of  bad  or  good  taste,  it  is  frequently 
denied  when  we  pass  to  particulars,  by  the  assertion  of  each  in- 
dividual that  he  has  a  right  to  his  opinion — a  right  which  is  some- 
times claimed  even  in  moral  matters,  though  then  palpably  with- 


sc.  I.  CH.  III.] 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  SENSE. 


19 


out  foundation,  but  which  does  not  appear  altogether  irrational  ii: 
matters  aesthetic,  wherein  little  operation  of  voluntary  choice  is 
supposed  possible.  It  would  appear  strange,  for  instance,  to  as- 
sert, respecting  a  particular  person  who  preferred  the  scent  of 
riolets  to  roses,  that  he  had  no  r-ght  to  do  so.  And  yet,  while  1 
have  said  that  the  sensation  of  beauty  is  intuitive  and  necessary, 
as  men  derive  pleasure  from  the  scent  of  a  rose,  I  have  assumed 
that  there  are  some  sources  from  which  it  is  rightly  derived,  and 
others  from  which  it  is  wrongly  derived,  in  other  words  that  men 
have  no  right  to  think  some  things  beautiful,  and  no  right  to  re- 
main apathetic  with  regard  to  others. 

Hence  then  arise  two  questions,  according  to  the  §  2.  And  ir 
sense  in  which  the  word  right  is  taken  ;  the  first,  in  th^^termsii^gi^^^ 
what  way  an  impression  of  sense  may  be  deceptive,  attachV^^to  Ita 
and  therefore  a  conclusion  respecting  it  untrue ;  and  conclusions? 
the  second,  in  what  way  an  impression  of  sense,  or  the  preference 
of  one,  may  be  a  subject  of  will,  and  therefore  of  moral  duty  or 
delinquency. 

To  the  first  of  these  questions,  I  ansv/er  that  v,^e  cannot  speak 
of  the  immediate  impression  of  sense  as  false,  nor  of  its  prefer- 
ence to  others  as  mistaken,  for  no  one  can  be  deceived  respecting 
the  actual  sensation  he  perceives  or  prefers.  But  falsity  may 
attach  to  his  assertion  or  supposition,  either  that  what  he  himself 
perceives  is  from  the  same  object  perceived  by  others,  or  is 
always  to  be  by  himself  perceived,  or  is  always  to  be  by  himself 
preferred ;  and  when  we  speak  of  a  man  as  wrong  in  his  impres- 
sions of  sense,  we  either  mean  that  he  feels  differently  from  all, 
or  a  majority,  respecting  a  certain  object,  or  that  he  prefers  at 
present  those  of  his  impressions,  which  ultimately  he  will  not 
prefer. 

.To  the  second  I  answer,  that  over  immediate  impressions  and 
immediate  preferences  we  have  no  power,  but  over  ultimate  im- 
pressions, and  especially  ultimate  proferences  we  have ;  and  that, 
though  we  can  neither  at  once  choose  whether  we  shall  see  an 
object,  red,  green,  or  blue,  nor  determine  to  like  the  red  better 
than  the  blue,  or  the  blue  better  than  the  red,  yet  we  can,  if  we 
choose,  make  ourselves  ultimately  susceptible  of  such  impressions 
in  other  degrees,  and  capable  of  pleasures  in  them  in  different 
measure ;  and  because,  wherever  power  of  any  kind  is  given 


20 


OF  ACCURACr  AND  INACCURACY  IN 


[part  IIlu 


there  is  responsibility  attached,  it  is  the  duty  of  men  to  prefei 
certain  impressions  of  sense  to  others,  because  they  have  the 
power  of  doing  so,  this  being  precisely  analogous  to  the  law  of 
^he  moral  world,  whereby  men  are  supposed  not  only  capable  of 
governing  their  likes  and  dislikes,  but  the  whole  culpability  or 
propriety  of  actions  is  dependent  upon  this  capability,  so  that 
men  are  guilty  or  otherwise,  not  for  what  they  do,  but  for  what 
they  desire,  the  command  being  not,  thou  shalt  obey,  but  thou 
shait  love,  the  Lord  thy  God,  which,  if  men  were  not  capable  of 
governing  and  directing  their  affections,  would  be  the  command 
of  an  impossibility. 

§3.  whatpower      I  asscrt,  therefore,  that  even  with  respect  to  im- 
knpressions^^of  p^cssions  of  scuse,  we  have  a  power  of  preference, 
and  a  corresponding  duty,  and  I  shall  show  first  the 
nature  of  the  power,  and  afterwards  the  nature  of  the  duty. 

Let  us  take  an  instance  from  one  of  the  lowest  of  the  senses, 
and  observe  the  kind  of  power  we  have  over  the  impressions  of 
lingual  taste.  On  the  first  offering  of  two  different  things  to  the 
palate,  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  prevent  or  command  the  instinc- 
tive preference.  One  will  be  unavoidably  and  helplessly  preferred 
to  the  other.  But  if  the  same  two  things  be  submitted  to  judg- 
ment frequently  and  attentively,  it  will  be  often  found  that  their 
relations  change.  The  palate,  which  at  first  perceived  only  the 
coarse  and  violent  qualities  of  either,  will,  as  it  becomes  more 
experienced,  acquire  greater  subtilty  and  delicacy  of  discrimina- 
tion, perceiving  in  both  agreeable  or  disagreeable  qualities  at  first 
unnoticed,  which  on  continued  experience  will  probably  become 
more  influential  than  the  first  impressions;  and  whatever  this 
final  verdict  may  be,  it  is  felt  by  the  person  who  gives  it,  and 
received  by  others  as  a  more  correct  one  than  the  first. 
,  ^     ^  So,  then,  the  power  we  have  over  the  preference 

§  4.  Depends  OIL         .  .  .  i  •  t 

acuteness  of  at-  of  imprcssious  of  tastc  is  uot  actual  nor  immediate, 
but  only  a  power  of  testing  and  comparing  them 
frequently  and  carefully,  until  that  which  is  the  more  permanent, 
the  more  consistently  agreeable,  be  determined.  But  when  the 
instrument  of  taste  is  thus  in  some  degree  perfected  and  rendered 
subtile,  by  its  being  practised  upon  a  single  object,  its  conclusidns 
will  be  more  rapid  with  respect  tD  others,  and  it  will  be  able  to 
distinguish  more  qoickly  in  other  things,  and  even  to  prefer  a* 


BC.  I.  CH.  III.]  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


21 


once,  those  qualities  wliicli  are  calculated  finally  to  give  it  most 
pleasure,  though  more  capable  with  respect  to  those  on  which  it 
is  more  frequently  exercised  ;  whence  people  are  called  judges 
with  respect  to  this  or  that  particular  object  of  taste. 

JSTow  that  verdicts  of  this  kind  are  received  as      _  , 

§  5.  TJltima<fl 

authoritative  by  others,  proves  another  and  more  conclusions 
important  fact,  namely,  that  not  only  changes  of 
opinion  take  place  in  consequence  of  experience,  but  that  those 
changes  are  from  variation  of  opinion  to  unity  of  opinion;  and 
that  whatever  may  be  the  differences  of  estimate  among  unprac- 
tised or  uncultivated  tastes,  there  will  be  unity  of  taste  among 
the  experienced.  And  t]:iat  therefore  the  operation  of  repeated 
trial  and  experience  is  to  arrive  at  principles  of  preference  in 
some  sort  common  to  all,  and  which  are  a  part  of  our  nature. 

I  have  selected  the  sense  of  taste  for  an  instance,  because  it  is 
the  least  favorable  to  the  position  I  hold,  since  there  is  more 
latitude  allowed,  and  more  actual  variety  of  verdict  in  the  case  of 
this  sense  than  of  any  other  ;  and  yet,  however  susceptible  of 
variety  even  the  ultimate  approximations  of  its  preferences  may 
be,  the  authority  of  judges  is  distinctly  allowed,  and  we  hear 
every  day  the  admission,  by  those  of  unpractised  palate,  that  they 
are,  or  may  be  wrong  in  their  opinions  respecting  the  real  pleas 
urableness  of  things  either  to  themselves,  or  to  others. 

The  sense,  how^ever,  in  which  they  thus  use  the    ^  _  , 

.  §  6.  What  duty 

word  "  wrong   is  merely  that  of  falseness  or  inaccu-  is  attached  tc 

-,     .  J      />  1    1  T  this  power  over 

racy  m  conclusion,  not  oi  moral  delinquency.    But  impressions  of 
there  is,  as  I  have  stated,  a  duty,  more  or  less  im- 
perative,  attached  to  every  power  we  possess,  and  therefore  to 
this  power  over  the  lower  senses  as  well  as  to  all  others. 

And  this  duty  is  evidently  to  bring  every  sense  into  that  state 
of  cultivation,  in  which  it  shall  both  form  the  truest  conclusions 
respecting  all  that  is  submitted  to  it,  and  procure  us  the  great- 
est amount  of  pleasure  consistent  with  its  due  relation  to  other 
senses  and  functions.  Which  three  constituents  of  perfection  in 
sense,  true  judgment,  maximum  sensibility,  and  right  relation  to 
others,  are  invariably  co-existent  and  involved  one  by  the  other, 
for  the  true  judgment  is  the  result  of  the  high  sensibility,  and 
the  liigh  sensibility  of  the  right  relation.  Thus,  for  instance, 
with  respect  to  pleasures  of  taste,  it  is  our  duty  not  to  devote 


22 


OF  ACCUKACl^    AxNU   INACCURACY   OF  [p  A.KT  Ilf. 


such  inordinate  attention  to  the  discrimination  of  them  as  must 
be  inconsistent  with  our  pursuit,  and  destructive  of  our  capacity, 
of  higher  and  preferable  pleasures,  but  to  cultivate  the  sense  of 
them  in  that  way  which  is  consistent  with  all  other  good,  by 
temperance,  namely,  and  by  such  attention  as  the  mind  at  certain 
renting  moments  may  fitly  pay  even  to  so  ignoble  a  source  of 
pleasure  as  this,  by  which  discipline  we  shall  bring  the  faculty 
of  taste  itself  to  its  real  maximum  of  sensibility ;  for  it  may  not  j 
be  doubted  but  that  health,  hunger,  and  such  general  refinement 
of  bodily  habits  as  shall  make  the  body  a  perfect  and  fine  instru- 
ment in  all  respects,  are  better  promoters  of  actual  sensual  enjoy- 
ment of  taste,  than  the  sickened,  sluggish,  hard-stimulated  fastidi- 
ousness of  Epicurism. 

.§  7.  How  re-  ^^^o  it  will  certainly  be  found  with,  all  the 

warded.  senses,  that  they  individuaMy  receive  the  greatest 

and  purest  pleasure  when  they  are  in  right  condition  and  degree 
of  subordination  to  all  the  rest;  and  that  by  the  over  cultivation 
of  any  one,  (for  morbid  sources  of  pleasure  and  correspondent 
temptations  to  irrational  indulgence,  confessedly  are  attached  to 
all,)  w^e  shall  add  more  to  their  power  as  instruments  of  punish- 
ment than  of  pleasure. 

We  see  then,  in  this  example  of  the  lowest  sense,  that  the 
power  we  have  over  sensations  and  preferences  depends  mainly 
on  the  exercise  of  attention  through  certain  prolonged  periods, 
and  that  by  this  exercise,  we  arri\'e  at  ultimate,  constant,  and 
common  sources  of  agreeableness,  casting  off  those  which  are 
external,  accidental,  and  individual. 
„  ^     .  ,        That  then  which  is  required  in  order  to  the  attain- 

§  8.  Especially  ^. 

with  respect  to  mcut  of  accuratc  conclusions  respecting  the  essence 
Ideas  of  beauty.  ^£  ^|^^  bcautiful,  is  nothing  more  than  earnest,  loving, 
and  unselfish  attention  to  our  impressions  of  it,  by  which  those 
which  are  shallow,  false,  or  peculiar  to  times  and  temperaments, 
may  be  distinguished  from  those  that  are  eternal.  And  this 
dwelling  upon,  and  fond  contemplation  of  them,  (the  anschauung 
of  the  Germans,)  is  perhaps  as  much  as  was  meant  by  the  Greek 
theoria ;  and  it  is  indeed  a  very  noble  exercise  of  the  souls  of 
men,  and  one  by  which  they  are  peculiarly  distinguished  from 
the  anima  of  loAver  creatures,  which  cannot,  I  think,  be  proved 
to  have  any  capacity  of  contemplation  at  all,  but  only  a  restless 


sc.  I.  CH.  III. J 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  SENSE. 


2'6 


vividness  of  perception  and  conception,  the  "fancy"  of  Hooker 
(Eccl.  Pol.  Book  i.  Chap.  vi.  2.)  And  yet  this  dwelhng  upon 
them  comes  not  up  to  that  which  I  wish  to  express  by  the  word 
theoria,  unless  it  be  accompanied  by  full  perception  of  their  being 
a  gift  from  and  m.anifestation  of  God,  and  by  all  those  other 
nobler  emotions  before  desci'ibed,  since  not  until  so  felt  is  their 
essential  nature  comprehended. 

But  two  very  important  points  are  to  be  observed  ^  ^  ^^j^^ts  in 
respectino^  the  direction  and  discipline  of  the  attention  duced  i»y  the 

1  c  '    1  ^t^^      n  i  power  of  habit 

in  the  early  stages  oi  judgment.  Ihe  iirst,  that,  lor 
many  beneficent  purposes,  the  nature  of  man  has  been  made 
reconcilable  by  custom  to  many  things  naturally  painful  to  it, 
and  even  improper  for  it;  and  that  therefore,  though  by  continued 
experience,  united  with  thought,  we  may  discover  that  which  is 
best  of  several,  yet  if  we  submit  ourselves  to  authority  or  fashion, 
and  close  our  eyes,  we  may  be  by  custom  made  to  tolerate,  and 
even  to  love  and  long  for,  that  which  is  naturally  painful  and 
pernicious  to  us,  whence  arise  incalculable  embarrassments  on  the 
subject  of  art. 

The  second,  that,  in  order  to  the  discovery  of  that  „„ 

...  ^  §  10.  The  ne- 

which  is  best  of  two  thino^s,  it  is  necessary  that  both  cessity  of  sub- 

.  .  mission  in  early 

should  be  equally  submitted  to  the  attention ;  and  stages  of  judg- 
therefore  that  we  should  have  so  much  faith  in  au- 
thority  as  shall  make  us  repeatedly  observe  and  attend  to  that 
which  is  said  to  be  right,  even  though  at  present  we  may  not  feel 
it  so.  And  in  the  right  mingling  of  this  fiiith  with  the  openness 
of  heart,  which  proves  all  things,  lies  the  great  difficulty  of  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  taste,  as  far  as  the  spirit  of  the  scholar  is  concerned, 
though  even  when  he  has  this  spirit,  he  may  be  long  retarded  by 
having  evil  examples  submitted  to  him  by  ignorant  masters. 

The  temper,  therefore,  by  which  right  taste  is  formed,  is  first, 
patient.  It  dwells  upon  what  is  submitted  to  it,  it  does  not  tram- 
ple upon  it  lest  it  should  be  pearls,  even  though  it  look  like  husks, 
it  is  a  good  ground,  soft,  penetrable,  retentive,  it  does  not  send 
up  thorns  of  unkind  thoughts,  to  choke  the  weak  seed,  it  is  hun- 
gry and  thirsty  too,  and  drinks  all  the  dew  that  falls  on  it,  it  is 
an  honest  and  good  heart,  that  shows  no  too  ready  springing 
before  the  sun  be  up,  but  fails  not  afterwards  ;  it  is  distrustful  of 
itself,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  believe  and  to  try  all  things,  and  yet 


24 


OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCURACY  OF  [PART  m 


60  trustful  of  itself,  that  it  will  neither  quit  what  it  has  tried,  noi 
take  anything  without  trying.  And  that  pleasure  which  it  has  in 
things  that  it  finds  true  and  good,  is  so  great  that  it  cannot  possi- 
bly be  led  aside  by  any  tricks  of  fashion,  nor  diseases  of  vanity, 
it  cannot  be  cramped  in  its  conclusions  by  partialities  and  hypoc- 
risies, its  visions  and  its  delights  are  too  penetrating,  too  living, 
for  any  white-washed  object  or  shallow  fountain  long  to  endure 
or  supply.  It  clasps  all  that  it  loves  so  hard,  that  it  crushes  it 
if  it  be  hollow. 

§  11.  The  large  ISTow,  the  conclusions  of  this  disposition  are  sure 
tmed  judg-"^^'  to  bo  eventually  right,  more  and  more  right  accord 
ing  to  the  general  maturity  of  all  the  powers,  but 
it  is  sure  to  come  right  at  last,  because  its  operation  is  in  anal- 
ogy to,  and  in  harmony  with,  the  whole  spirit  of  the  Christian 
moral  system,  and  that  which  it  will  ultimately  love  and  rest  in, 
are  great  sources  of  happiness  common  to  all  the  human  race; 
and  based  on  the  relations  they  hold  to  their  Creator. 

These  common  and  general  sources  of  pleasure  are,  I  believe, 
a  certain  seal,  or  impress  of  divine  work  and  character,  upon 
whatever  God  has  wrought  in  all  the  world ;  only,  it  being  neces- 
sary for  the  perception  of  them,  that  their  contraries  should  also 
be  set  before  us,  these  divine  qualities,  though  inseparable  from 
all  divine  works,  are  yet  suffered  to  exist  in  such  varieties  of 
degree,  that  their  most  limited  manifestation  shall,  in  opposition 
to  their  most  abundant,  act  as  a  foil  or  contrary,  just  as  we  con- 
ceive of  cold  as  contrary  to  heat,  though  the  most  extreme  cold 
we  can  produce  or  conceive  is  not  inconsistent  with  an  unknown 
amount  of  heat  in  the  body. 

Our  purity  of  taste,  therefore,  is  best  tested  bv  its 

^  12.  How  dis-  '  11.        1  .      1  . 

tiuguishabie  universality,  for  if  we  can  only  admire  this  thing  or 
that,  we  may  be  sure  that  our  cause  for  liking  is  Df  a 
finite  and  false  nature.  But  if  we  can  perceive  beauty  in  every- 
thing of  God's  doing,  we  may  argue  that  we  have  reached  the 
true  perception  of  its  universal  laws.  Hence,  false  taste  may  be 
known  by  its  fastidiousness,  by  its  demands  of  pomp,  splendor, 
and  unusual  combination,  by  its  enjoyment  only  of  particular 
styles  and  modes  of  things,  and  b}^  its  pride  also,  for  it  is  forever 
meddling,  mending,  accumulating,  and  self-exulting,  its  eye  is 
always  upon  itself,  and  it  tests  all  things  around  it  by  the  way 


sc.  I.  CH.  III. J 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


2t 


iliey  fit  it.  But  true  taste  is  forever  growing,  learning,  reading, 
worshipping,  laying  its  hand  upon  its  mouth  because  it  is  aston- 
ished, casting  its  shoes  from  off  its  feet  because  it  finds  all  ground 
holy,  lamenting  over  itself  and  testing  itself  by  the  way  that  it 
fits  things.  And  it  finds  whereof  to  feed,  and  whereby  to  grow, 
in  all  things,  and  therefore  the  complaint  so  often  made  by  young 
artists  that  they  have  not  within  their  reach  materials,  or  subjects 
enough  for  their  fancy,  is  utterly  groundless,  and  the  sign  only 
of  their  own  blindness  and  inefficiency ;  for  there  is  that  to  be 
seen  in  every  street  and  lane  of  every  city,  that  to  be  felt  and 
found  in  every  human  heart  and  countenance,  that  to  be  loved  in 
every  road-side  weed  and  moss-grown  wall,  which  in  the  hands 
of  faithful  men,  may  convey  emotions  of  glory  and  sublimity  con- 
tinual and  exalted. 

Let  therefore  the  young  artist  beware  of  the  spirit  ^ 
of  choice,"^'  it  is  an  insolent  spirit  at  the  best  and  ger  of  a  spirit  of 
commonly  a  base  and  blind  one  too,  checking  all  pro- 
gress and  blasting  all  power,  encouraging  weaknesses,  pampering 
partialities,  and  teaching  us  to  look  to  accidents  of  nature  for  the 
help  and  the  joy  which  should  come  from,  our  own  hearts.  He 
draws  nothing  well  who  thirsts  not  to  draw  everything ;  when  a 
good  painter  shrinks,  it  is  because  he  is  humbled,  not  fastidious, 
when  he  stops,  it  is  because  he  is  surfeited,  and  not  because  he 
thinks  nature  has  given  him  unkindly  food,  or  that  he  fears 
famine.f  I  have  seen  a  man  of  true  taste  pause  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  to  look  at  the  channellings  that  recent  rain  had  traced  m 
a  heap  of  cinders. 

And  here  is  evident  another  reason  of  that  duty  §  14.  And  crim 
which  we  owe  respecting  impressions  of  sight,  namely,  ^^^^^^y- 
to  discipline  ourselves  to  the  enjoyment  of  those  which  are  eter- 
nal in  their  nature,  not  only  because  these  are  the  most  acute,  but 
because  they  are  the  most  easily,  constantly,  and  unselfishly  at- 
tainable. For  had  it  been  ordained  by  the  Almighty  that  the 
highest  pleasures  of  sight  should  be  those  of  most  difficult  attain- 
ment, and  that  to  arrive  at  them  it  should  be  necessary  to  accu- 

*     Nothing  comes  amiss, — 
A  good  digestion  turneth  all  to  health." — G.  Herbert. 

f  Yet  note  the  difference  between  the  choice  that  comes  of  pride,  and  tho 
choice  that  comes  of  love,  and  compare  Chap.  xv.  §  6. 
VOL.  IT.  2 


26 


OF  ACCURACY  AND  INACCURACY  IN  [pART  III 


mulate  gilded  palaces  tower  over  tower,  and  pile  artificial  moun- 
tains around  insinuated  lakes,  there  would  have  been  a  direct  con- 
tradiction between  the  unselfish  duties  and  inherent  desires  of 
every  individual.  But  no  such  contradiction  exists  in  the  system 
of  Divine  Providence,  which,  leaving  it  open  to  us,  if  we  will,  as 
creatures  in  probation,  to  abuse  this  sense  like  every  other,  and 
pamper  it  with  selfish  and  thoughtless  vanities  as  we  pamper  the 
palate  with  deadly  meats,  until  the  appetite  of  tasteful  cruelty  is 
lost  in  its  sickened  satiety,  incapable  of  pleasure  unless,  Caligula 
like,  it  concentrate  the  labor  of  a  million  of  lives  into  the  sensa- 
tion of  an  hour,  leaves  it  also  open  to  us,  by  humble  and  loving 
ways,  to  make  ourselves  susceptible  of  deep  delight  from  the 
meanest  objects  of  creation,  and  of  a  delight  which  shall  not  sep- 
arate us  from  our  fellows,  nor  require  the  sacrifice  of  any  duty  or 
occupation,  but  which  shall  bind  us  closer  to  men  and  to  God, 
and  be  with  us  always,  harmonized  with  every  action,  consistent 
with  every  claim,  unchanging-  and  eternal. 

§15.  Howcer-  Seeing  then  that  these  qualities  of  material  objects 
sions^^^-espect-  whicli  are  calculated  to  give  us  this  universal  pleas- 
^hy  reason  de^  ^^'^  demonstrably  constant  in  their  address  to 
monstrafcie.  human  nature,  they  must  belong  in  some  measure  to 
whatever  has  been  esteemed  beautiful  throughout  successive  ages 
of  the  world  (and  they  are  also  by  their  definition  common  to  all 
the  works  of  God.)  Therefore  it  is  evident  that  it  must  be  pos- 
sible to  reason  them  out,  as  well  as  to  feel  them  out ;  possible  to 
divest  every  object  of  that  v»'hicli  makes  it  accidentally  or  tempora- 
rily pleasant,  and  to  strip  it  bare  of  distinctive  qualities,  until  we 
arrive  at  those  which  it  has  in  common  with  all  other  beautiful 
things,  which  we  may  then  safely  affirm  to  be  the  causn  of  its  ul- 
timate and  true  delightfulness. 

Now  this  process  of  reasoninsf  will  be  that  wliicli  I 

§16.  With  what     ,    „       ,       ^  i       .      i  t  • 

liabilities  to  er-  shall  endeavor  to  employ  m  the  succeeding  mvesi^.ga- 
tions,  a  process  perfectly  safe,  so  long  as  we  are  quite 
sure  that  we  are  reasoning  concerning  objects  which  produce  in 
us  one  and  the  same  sensation,  but  not  safe  if  the  sensation  pro- 
duced be  of  a  different  nature,  though  it  jnay  be  equally  agreea- 
ble ;  for  what  produces  a  different  sensation  muot  be  a  difltbrect 
cause.  And  tlie  difficulty  of  reasoning  respecting  beauty  arises 
chiefly  from  the  ambiguity  of  the  word,  wnich  stands  in  different 


6C.  I.  CH.  Ill  J 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


27 


people's  minds  for  totally  different  sensations,  for  whi;  h  there  can 
be  no  common  cause. 

When,  for  instance,  Mr.  Alison  endeav:rs  to  support  his  posi- 
tion that  "  no  man  is  sensible  to  beauty  in  those  objects  with  re- 
gard to  which  he  has  not  previous  ideas,"  by  the  remark  that 
"  the  beauty  of  a  theory,  or  of  a  relic  of  antiquity,  is  unintelligible 
to  a  peasant"  we  see  at  once  that  it  is  hopeless  to  argue  with  a 
man  who,  under  his  general  term  beauty,  may,  for  anything  we 
know,  be  sometimes  speaking  of  mathematical  demonstrability 
aud  sometimes  of  historical  interest ;  while  even  if  we  could  suc- 
ceed in  hmiting  the  term  to  the  sense  of  external  attractiveness, 
there  would  be  still  room  for  many  phases  of  error  ;  for  though  the 
beauty  of  a  snowy  mountain  and  of  a  human  cheek  or  forehead, 
so  far  as  both  are  considered  as  mere  matter,  is  the  same,  and 
traceable  to  certain  qualities  of  color  and  line,  common  to  both, 
and  by  reason  extricable,  yet  the  flush  of  the  cheek  and  moulding 
of  the  brow,  as  they  express  modesty,  affection,  or  intellect,  pos- 
sess sources  of  agreeableness  which  are  not  common  to  the  snowy 
mountain,  and  the  interference  of  whose  influence  we  must  be 
cautious  to  prevent  in  our  examination  of  those  which  are  material 
and  universal.^  , 

The  first  thing,  then,  that  we  have  to  do,  is  accu-  §  17.  The  term 
rately  to  discriminate  and  define  those  appearances  limSie'inthe 
from  which  we  are  about  to  reason  as  belonarino^  to  P^/^e*;.  Divided 

^    &         into  typical 

beauty,  properly  so  called,  and  to  clear  the  ground  ^^^i- 
of  all  the  confused  ideas  and  erroneous  theories  with  which  the 
misapprehension  or  metaphorical  use  of  the  term  has  encum- 
bered it. 

By  the  term  beauty,  then,  properly  are  signified  two  things. 
First,  that  external  quality  of  bodies  already  so  often  spoken  of, 
and  which,  whether  it  occur  in  a  stone,  flower,  beast,  or  in  man,  is 
absolutely  identical,  which,  as  I  have  already  asserted,  may  be 
shown  to  be  in  some  sort  typical  of  the  Divine  attributes,  and 
which,  therefore,  I  shall,  for  distinction's  sake,  call  typical  beauty  ; 
and,  secondarily,  the  appearance  of  felicitous  fulfilment  of  func- 
tion in  living  things,  more  especially  of  the  joyful  and  right  exer- 

♦  Compare  Spenser.    (Hymn  to  Beauty.) 

"  But  ah,  believe  me,  there  is  more  than  so, 
That  works  such  wonders  in  the  minds  of  men.'* 


28 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SENSE. 


[part  hi. 


tion  of  perfect  life  in  man.  And  this  kind  of  beauty  I  shall  call 
vital  beauty. 

Any  application  of  the  word  beautiful  to  other  appearances  or 
qualities  than  these,  is  either  false  or  metaphorical,  as,  for  instance, 
to  the  splendor  of  a  discovery,  the  fitness  of  a  proportion,  the  co- 
herence of  a  chain  of  reasoning,  or  the  power  of  bestowing  pleas- 
ure which  objects  receive  from  association,  a  power  confessedly 
great,  and  interfering,  as  we  shall  presently  find,  in  a  most  em- 
barrassing way  with  the  attractiveness  of  inherent  beauty. 

But  in  order  that  the  mind  of  the  reader  may  not  be  biassed 
at  the  outset  by  that  which  he  may  happen  to  have  received  of 
current  theories  respecting  beauty,  founded  on  the  above  meta- 
phorical uses  of  the  word,  (theories  which  are  less  to  be  reprobated 
as  accounting  falsely  for  the  sensations  of  which  they  treat,  than 
as  confusing  two  or  more  pleasurable  sensations  together,)  I  shall 
briefly  glance  at  the  four  erroneous  positions  most  frequently  held 
upon  this  subject,  before  proceeding  to  examine  those  typical  and 
vital  properties  of  things,  to  which  I  conceive  that  all  our  original 
conceptions  of  beauty  may  be  traced. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


OF  FALSE  OPINIONS  HELD  CONCERNING  BEAUTY. 

I  PURPOSE  at  present  to  speak  only  of  four  of  the  ofthefaiw 
more  current  opinions  respecting  beauty,  for  of  the  ^^^^^^^J^^^^^^ 
errors  connected  with  the  pleasurableness  of  propor-  ty,  and  vice 
tion,  and  of  the  expression  of  right  feehngs  in  the 
countenance,  I  shall  have  opportunity  to  treat  in  the  succeeding 
chapters ;  (compare  Ch.  YI.  Ch.  XYI.) 

Those  erring  or  inconsistent  positions  which  I  would  at  once 
dismiss  are,  the  first,  that  the  beautiful  is  the  true,  the  second, 
that  the  beautiful  is  the  useful,  tlie  third,  that  it  is  dependent  on 
custom,  and  the  fourth,  that  it  is  dependent  on  the  association 
of  ideas. 

To  assert  that  the  beautiful  is  the  true,  appears,  at  first,  like 
asserting  that  propositions  are  matter,  and  matter  propositions. 
But  giving  the  best  and  most  rational  interpretation  we  can,  and 
supposing  the  holders  of  this  strange  position  to  mean  only  that 
things  are  beautiful  which  appear  what  they  indeed  are,  and  ugly 
which  appear  what  they  are  not,  we  find  them  instantly  contra- 
dicted by  each  and  every  conclusion  of  experience.  A  stone  looks 
as  truly  a  stone  as  a  rose  looks  a  rose,  and  yet  is  not  so  beautiful  ; 
a  cloud  may  look  more  like  a  castle  than  a  cloud,  and  be  the  more 
beautiful  on  that  account.  The  mirage  of  the  desert  is  fairer  than 
its  sands  ;  the  false  image  of  the  under  heaven  fairer  than  the 
sea.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  any  so  untenable  a  position 
could  ever  have  been  advanced ;  but  it  may,  perhaps,  have  arisen 
from  some  confusion  of  the  beauty  of  art  with  the  beauty  of  na- 
cure,  and  from  an  illogical  expansion  of  the  very  certain  truth, 
that  ngthing  is  beautiful  in  art,  which,  professing  to  be  an  imita- 
tion, or  a  statement,  is  not  as  such  in  some  sort  true. 

That  the  beautiful  is  the  useful,  is  an  assertion  evi-  §  2.  Of  the  faiso 
dentlv  based  on  that  limited  and  false  sense  of  the  beauty  ij  uso 


30 


OF  FALSE  OPINIONS 


[part  IIL 


fulness.  Com-  latter  term  which  I  have  already  deprecated.    As  it 

pare  Chap.  xn.   .  i  i 

§  5.  IS  the  most  degradmg  and  dangerous  supposition 

which  can  be  advanced  on  the  subject,  so,  fortunately,  it  is  the 
most  paloably  absurd.  It  is  to  confound  admiration  with  hun- 
ger, love  with  lust,  and  life  with  sensation ;  it  is  to  assert  that  the 
human  creature  has  no  ideas  and  no  feelings,  except  those  ulti- 
mately referable  to  its  brutal  appetites.  It  has  not  a  single  fact 
nor  appearance  of  fact  to  support  it,  and  needs  no  combating,  at 
least  until  its  advocates  have  obtained  the  consent  of  the  majority 
of  mankind,  that  the  most  beautiful  productions  of  nature  are 
seeds  and  roots ;  and  of  art,  spades  and  millstones. 
§  3.  Of  th.;  Somewhat  more  rational  grounds  appear  for  the  as- 
Sat  beauty  "e-  -^ertion  that  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  arises  from  fa- 
tom  ^^cSnpare  ^^i^i^i'ity  with  the  object,  though  even  this  could  not 
Chap.  y\.  §  1.  long  be  maintained  by  a  thinking  person.  For  all  that 
can  be  alleged  in  defence  of  such  a  supposition  is,  that  familiarity 
deprives  some  objects  which  at  first  appeared  ugly,  of  much  of 
•their  repulsiveness,  whence  it  is  as  rational  to  conclude  that  famil- 
iarity is  the  cause  of  beauty,  as  it  would  be  to  argue  that  because 
it  is  possible  to  acquire  a  taste  for  olives,  therefore  custom  is  the 
cause  of  lusciousness  in  grapes..  Nevertheless,  there  are  some 
phenomena  resulting  from  the  tendency  of  our  nature  to  be  mflu- 
enced  by  habit  of  which  it  ma}^  be  well  to  observe  the  limits. 
§  4.  The  two-  Custom  has  a  twofold  operation  :  the  one  to  deaden 
o?^custom!^^^^it  ^^^6  frequency  and  force  of  repeated  impressions,  the 
deadeiis  sensa-  q^^qy  to  cudcar  the  familiar  object  to  the  affections. 

tion,  but  con-  J 

firms  affection.  Commonly,  wlicre  the  mind  is  vigorous,  and  the  power 
of  sensation  very  perfect,  it  has  rather  the  last  operation  than  the 
first ;  with  meaner  minds,  the  first  takes  place  in  the  higher  degree, 
so  that  they  are  commonly  characterized  by  a  desire  of  excite- 
ment, and  the  want  of  the  loving,  fixed,  theoretic  power.  But 
both  take  place  in  some  degree  with  all  men,  so  that  as  life  ad- 
vances, impressions  of  all  kinds  become  less  rapturous  owing  to 
their  repetition.  It  is  however  beneficently  ordained  that  repul- 
siveness shall  be  diminished  by  custom  in  a  far  greater  degree  than 
the  sensation  of  beauty,  so  that  the  anatomist  in  a  little  time  loses 
all  sense  of  horror  in  the  torn  flesh,  and  carous  bone,  while  the 
sculptor  ceases  not  to  feel  to  the  close  of  his  life,  the  dehciousness 
of  every,  line  of  the  outward  frame.    So  then  as  in  that  with  which 


sc.  I.  CH.  IV.] 


HELD   CONCERNING  BEAUTT. 


3] 


we  are  made  familiar,  the  repulsiveness  is  constantly  diminishing, 
and  such  claims  as  it  may  be  able  to  put  forth  on  the  aflfections  are 
daily  becoming  stronger,  vrhile  in  what  is  submitted  to  us  of  new 
or  strange,  that  which  may  be  repulsive  is  felt  in  its  full  force, 
while  no  hold  is  as  yet  laid  on  the  affections,  there  is  a  very  strong 
preference  induced  in  most  minds  for  that  to  which  they  are  accus- 
tomed over  that  they  know  not,  and  this  is  strongest  in  those  which 
are  least  open  to  sensations  cf  positive  beauty.  But  ^  ^  ^^^^^ 
however  far  this  operation  mav  be  carried,  its  utmost  either  createi 

.  ,       ,      ,     .  ,  .        .         1  destroys  the 

suect  IS  but  the  deadening  and  approximating  the  essence  of 
sensations  of  beauty  and  ugliness.  It  never  mixes  nor 
crosses,  nor  in  any  way  alters  them ;  it  has  not  the  slightest  con- 
nection with  nor  power  over  their  nature.  By  tasting  two  wines 
alternately,  we  may  deaden  our  perception  of  their  flavor ;  nay,  we 
may  even  do  more  than  can  ever  be  done  in  the  case  of  sight,  we 
may  confound  the  two  flavors  together.  But  it  will  hardly  be  ar- 
gued* therefore  that  custom  is  the  cause  of  either  flavor.  And  so, 
though  by  habit  we  may  deaden  the  eff'ect  of  ugliness  or  beauty, 
it  is  not  for  that  reason  to  be  affirmed  that  habit  is  the  cause  of 
either  sensation.  We  may  keep  a  skull  beside  us  as  long  as  we 
please,  we  may  overcome  its  repulsiveness,  w^e  may  render  our- 
selves capable  of  perceiving  many  qualities  of  beauty  about  its 
lines,  we  may  contemplate  it  for  years  together  if  we  will,  it  and 
nothing  else,  but  we  shall  not  get  ourselves  to  think  as  well  of  it 
as  of  a  child's  fair  face. 

It  would  be  easy  to  pursue  the  subject  farther,  but  §  6.  instances 
I  believe  that  every  thoughtful  reader  will  be  perfectly  well  able  to 
supply  farther  illustrations,  and  sweep  away  the  sandy  foundations 
of  the  opposite  theory,  unassisted.  Let  it,  however,  be  observed, 
that  in  spite  of  all  custom,  an  Englishman  instantly  acknowledges, 
and  at  first  sight,  the  superiority  of  the  turban  to  the  hat,  or  of  the 
plaid  to  the  coat,  that  whatever  the  dictates  of  immediate  fashion 
may  compel,  the  superior  gracefulness  of  the  Greek  or  middle  age 
costumes  is  invariably  felt,  and  that,  respecting  what  has  been  as- 
serted of  negro  nations  looking  with  disgust  on  the  white  face,  no 
importance  whatever  is  to  be  attached  to  the  opinions  of  races 
who  have  never  received  any  ideas  of  beauty  whatsoever,  (these 
ideas  being  only  received  by  minds  under  some  certain  degree  of 
uiltivation,)  and  whose  disn^ust  arises  naturally  fron   _ 


LIBRARY 


OF  FALSE  OPINION! 


[part  ni 


may  si^ppose  to  be  a  sign  of  weakness  or  ill  health.  It  would  he 
futile  to  proceed  into  farther  detail.  I  pass  to  the  last  and  most 
weighty  theory,  that  the  agreeableness  in  objects  which  we  call 
beauty  is  the  result  of  the  association  with  them  of  aorreeabla  02 
interesting  ideas. 

§  7  Of  the  false  Frequent  has  been  the  support,  and  wide  the  accept- 
oriuion  that    auce  of  this  supposition,  and  yet  I  suppose  that  no 

beauty  depends  ,     ^  ^  *^  .         .     ,  ^ 

on  the  associa-  two  cousccutiye  Sentences  were  ever  written  m  defence 
lion  o  1  eas.  .^^  without  involving  either  a  contradiction  or  a  con- 
fusion of  terms.  Thus  Alison,  "  There  are  scenes  undoubtedly 
more  beautiful  than  Runnymede,  yet  to  those  who  recollect  the 
great  event  that  passed  there,  there  is  no  scene  perhaps  which  so 
strongly  seizes  on  the  imagination."  Where  we  are  wonder-struck 
at  the  audacious  obtuseness  which  would  prove  the  power  of  im- 
agination by  its  overcoming  that  very  other  power  (of  inherent 
beauty)  whose  existence  the  arguer  denies.  For  the  only  logical 
conclusion  which  can  possibly  be  drawn  from  the  above  sentence 
is,  that  imagination  is  oiot  the  source  of  beauty,  for  although  no 
scene  seizes  so  strongly  on  the  imagination,  yet  there  are  scenes 
"  more  beautiful  than  Runnymede."  And  though  instances  of 
self-contradiction  as  laconic  and  complete  as  this  are  to  be  found 
in  few  writers  except  Alison,  yet  if  the  arguments  on  the  subject 
be  fairly  sifted  from  the  mass  of  confused  language  with  which 
they  are  always  encumbered  and  placed  in  logical  form,  they  will 
be  found  invariably  to  involve  one  of  these  two  syllogisms,  either, 
association  gives  pleasure,  and  beauty  gives  pleasure,  therefore 
association  is  beauty.  Or,  the  power  of  association  is  stronger 
than  the  power  of  beauty,  therefore  the  power  of  association  is  the 
power  of  beauty. 

8.  Associa-  Nevertheless  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  observe  tlio 
raUonaL^' it'^^Js  ^^^^  valuc  and  authority  of  association  in  the  moral 
as  T  caiSe^of  ^jstem,  and  how  ideas  of  actual  beauty  may  be  af- 
beauty.  fected  by  it,  otherwise  we  shall  be  liable  to  embarrass- 

ment throughout  the  whole  of  the  succeeding  argument. 

Association  is  of  two  kinds.  Rational  an(J.  accidental.  By  ra- 
tional association  I  understand  the  interest  which  any  object  may 
bear  historically  as  having  been  in  some  way  connected  with  tlie 
affairs  or  affections  of  men ;  an  interest  shared  in  the  minds  of  all 
who  are  aware  of  such  connection :  which  to  call  beauty  is  mer« 


and  gross  confusion  of  terms,  it  is  no  theory  to  be  confuted,  but  a 
misuse  of  language  to  be  set  aside,  a  misuse  involving  the  posi- 
tions that  in  uninhabited  countries  the  vegetation  has  no  grace, 
the  rock  no  dignity,  the  cloud  no  color,  and  that  the  snowy  sum- 
mits of  the  Alps  receive  no  loveliness  from  the  sunset  li2;ht,  be 
cause  they  have  not  Deen  polluted  by  the  wrath,  ravage,  and 
misery  of  men. 

By  accidental  association,  I  understand  the  acci-  §  9.  Associa 
dental  connection  of  ideas  and  memories  Avith  material  ^he  ext^nr^of 
things,  owing  to  which  those  material  things  are  re-  influence, 
garded  as  agreeable  or  otherwise,  according  to  the  nature  of  the 
feelings  or  recollections  they  summon  ;  the  association  being  com- 
monly involuntary  and  oftentimes  so  vague  as  that  no  distinct 
image  is  suggested  by  the  object,  but  we  feel  a  painfulness  in  it 
or  pleasure  from  it,  without  knowing  wherefore.  Of  this  opera- 
tion of  the  mind  (which  is  that  of  which  I  spoke  as  causing  inex- 
tricable embarrassments  on  the  subject  of  beauty)  the  experience 
is  constant,  so  that  its  more  energetic  manifestations  require  no 
illustration.  But  I  do  not  think  that  the  minor  degrees  and  shades 
of  this  great  influence  have  been  sufficiently  appreciated.  Not 
only  all  vivid  emotions  and  all  circumstances  of  exciting  interest 
leave  their  light  and  shadow  on  the  senseless  things  and  instru- 
ments among  which  or  through  whose  agency  they  have  been  felt 
or  learned,  but  I  believe  that  the  eye  cannot  rest  on  a  material 
form,  in  a  moment  of  depression  or  exultation,  without  communi- 
cating to  that  form  a  spirit  and  a  life,  a  life  which  will  make  it  af- 
terwards in  some  degree  loved  or  feared,  a  charm  or  a  painfulness 
for  which  we  shall  be  unable  to  account  even  to  ourselves,  which 
will  not  indeed  be  perceptible,  except  by  its  delicate  influence  on 
our  judgment  in  cases  of  complicated  beauty.  Let  the  eye  but 
rest  on  a  rough  piece  of  branch  of  curious  form  during  a  conversa- 
tion with  a  friend,  rest,  however,  unconsciously,  and  though  the 
conversation  be  forgotten,  though  every  circumstance  connected 
with  it  be  as  utterly  lost  to  the  memory  as  though  it  had  not  been, 
yet  the  eye  will,  through  the  whole  life  after,  take  a  certain  pleas- 
ure in  such  boughs  which  it  had  not  before,  a  pleasure  so  slight,  a 
trace  of  feeling  so  delicate  as  to  leave  us  utterly  unconscious  of  its 
peculiar  power,  but  undestroyable  by  any  reasoning,  a  part,  thence- 
forward, of  our  constitution,  dcstroyable  only  by  the  same  arbi- 

2* 


34 


OF   FALSE  OPINIONS 


[part  III, 


traiy  process  of  association  by  whicli  it  was  created.  Reason  has 
no  effect  upon  it  whatsoever.  And  tliere  is  probably  no  one  opin- 
ion which  is  formed  by  any  of  us,  in  matters  of  taste,  which  is  not 
in  some  degree  influenced  by  unconscious  association  of  this  kind. 
In  many  who  have  no  definite  rules  of  judgment,  preference  is  de- 
cided by  little  else,  and  thus,  unfortunately,  its  operations  are  mis- 
taken for,  or  rather  substituted  for,  those  of  inherent  beauty,  and 
its  real  position  and  value  in  the  moral  system  is  in  a  great  meas- 
ure overlooked. 

§  10  The  dig  ^^^^  ^  believe  that  mere  pleasure  and  pain  have  less 
Dity  of  itsfimc-  associative  power  than  duty  performed  or  omitted,  and 
that  the  great  use  of  the  associative  faculty  is  not  to  add 
Deauty  to  material  things,  but  to  add  force  to  the  conscience.  But 
for  this  external  and  all-powerful  witness,  the  voice  of  the  inward 
guide  might  be  lost  in  each  particular  instance,  almost  as  soon  as 
disobeyed ;  the  echo  of  it  in  after  time,  whereby,  though  perhaps 
feeble  as  warning,  it  becomes  powerful  as  punishment,  might  be 
silenced,  and  the  strength  of  the  protection  pass  away  in  the  light- 
ness of  the  lash.  Therefore  it  has  received  the  power  of  enlisting 
external  and  unmeaning  things  in  its  aid,  and  transmitting  to  all 
that  is  indifferent  its  own  authority  to  reprove  or  reward,  so  that, 
as  we  travel  the  way  of  life,  we  have  the  choice,  according  to  our 
working,  of  turning  all  the  voices  of  nature  into  one  song  of  rejoic- 
ing, and  all  her  lifeless  creatures  into  a  gkid  company,  whereof  the 
meanest  shall  be  beautiful  in  our  eyes,  by  its  kind  message,  or  of 
withering  and  quenching  her  sympathy  into  a  fearful,  withdrawn, 
silence  of  condemnation,  or  into  a  crying  out  of  her  stones,  and  a 
shaking  of  her  dust  against  us.  Nor  is  it  any  marvel  that  the 
theoretic  faculty  should  be  overpowered  by  this  momentous  ope- 
ration, and  the  indifferent  appeals  and  inherent  glories  of  external 
things  in  the  end  overlooked,  when  the  perfection  of  God's  works 
is  felt  only  as  the  sweetness  of  his  promises,  and  their  admirable- 
ness  only  as  the  threatenings  of  his  power. 

§  11.  How  it  is  But  it  is  evident  that  the  full  exercise  of  this  noble 
h?iprIsstonrS  function  of  the  associative  faculty  is  inconsistent  with 
boauty.  absolutc  and  incontrovertible  conclusions  on  subjects 

of  theoretic  preference.  For  it  is  quite  impossible  for  any  indi- 
vidual to  distinguish  in  himself  the  unconscious  underworking  of 
indefinite  association,  peculiar  to  hia  individually,  from  those  greal 


8C.  I.  CH.  IV.] 


HELD  CONCERNING  BEAUTY. 


35 


laws  of  choice  under  which  he  is  comprehended  with  all  his  race. 
A.nd  it  is  well  for  us  that  it  is  so,  the  harmony  of  God's  good  work 
IS  not  in  us  interrupted  by  this  mingling  of  universal  and  peculiar 
principles ;  for  by  these  such,  difference  is  secured  in  the  feelings 
as  shall  make  fellowship  itself  more  delightful,  by  its  inter-com- 
municate character,  and  such  variety  of  feeling  also  in  each  of  us 
separately  as  shall  juake  us  capable  of  enjoying  scenes  of  different 
kinds  and  orders,  instead  of  morbidly  seeking  for  some  perfect 
epitome  of  the  beauiiful  in  one ;  and  also  that  deadening  by  cus- 
tom of  theoretic  impressions  to  which  I  have  above  alluded,  is 
counterbaianced  by  the  pleasantness  of  acquired  association  ;  and 
the  loss  of  the  intense  feeling  of  the  youth,  which  "  had  no  need 
of  a  remoter  charm,  by  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest,  unbor- 
rowed from  the  eye,"  is  replaced  by  the  gladness  of  conscience, 
and  the  vigor  of  the  reflecting  and  imaginative  faculties,  as  they 
take  their  wide  and  aged  grasp  of  the  great  relations  between  the 
earth  and  its  dead  people. 

In  proportion  therefore  to  the  value,  constancy,  and  ^  ^^^j  ^jjjjt 
efficiency  of  this  influence,  we  must  be  modest  and  caution  it  ren- 

.       ,  .  .  .  .   .  ders  necessary 

cautious  in  the  pronouncing  oi  positive  opinions  on  in  the  examina- 
the  subject  of  beauty.  For  every  one  of  us  has  pe- 
culiar sources  of  enjoyment  necessarily  opened  to  him  in  certain 
scenes  and  things,  sources  which  are  sealed  to  others,  and  we 
must  be  wary  on  the  one  hand,  of  confounding  these  in  ourselves 
with  ultimate  conclusions  of  taste,  and  so  forcing  them  upon  all  as 
authoritative,  and  on  the  other  of  supposing  that  the  enjoyments 
of  others  which  we  cannot  share  are  shallow  or  unwarrantable, 
because  incommunicable.  I  fear,  for  instance,  that  in  the  former 
portion  of  this  work  I  may  have  attributed  too  much  community 
and  authority  to  certain  affections  of  my  own  for  scenery  inducing 
emotions  of  wild,  impetuous,  and  enthusiastic  characters,  and  too 
Httle  to  those  which  I  perceive  in  others  for  things  peaceful,  hum- 
ble, meditative,  and  solemn.  So  also  between  youth  and  age 
tliere  will  be  found  differences  of  seeking,  which  are  not  wrong, 
nor  of  false  choice  in  either,  but  of  different  temperament,  the 
youth  sympathizing  more  with  the  gladness,  fulness,  and  magnifi- 
cence of  things,  and  the  gray  hairs  with  their  completion,  suf- 
ficiency and  repose.  And  so,  neither  condemning  the  delights  of 
others,  nor  altogether  distrustful  of  our  own,  we  must  advance,  as 


S6       OF  FALSE   OPINIONS  HELD  CONCERNING  BEAUTY.      [pART  IIX, 

we  live  on,  from  what  is  brilliant  to  what  is  pure,  and  from  what 
is  promised  to  what  is  fulfilled,  and  from  what  is  our  strength  to 
wliat  is  our  crown,  only  observing  in  all  things  how  that  which  is 
indeed  wrong,  and  to  be  cut  up  from  the  root,  is  dislike,  and  not 
aflection.  For  by  the  very  nature  of  these  beautiful  qualities, 
which  I  liave  defined  to  be  the  signature  of  God  upon  his  works, 
it  is  evident  that  in  whatever  we  altogether  dislike,  we  see  not 
all ;  that  the  keenness  of  our  vision  is  to  be  tested  by  the  expan- 
siveness  of  our  love,  and  that  as  far  as  the  influence  of  association 
has  voice  in  the  question,  though  it  is  indeed  possible  that  the  in- 
evitable painfulness  of  an  object,  for  which  we  can  render  no  suf- 
ficient reason,  may  be  owing  to  its  recalling  of  a  sori'ow,  it  is  more 
probably  dependent  on  its  accusation  of  a  crime. 


CHAPTER  V 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUT ^~ 

\st,  of  Infinity,  or  the  type  of  Divine  IncompreliensibiUty, 

The  subject  being  now  in  some  measure  cleared  of  §  i.  impos?! 
embarrassment,  let  us  briefly  distinguish  those  quali-  quatei/^ treat 
ties  or  types  on  whose  combination  is  dependent  the  subject 
power  of  mere  material  loveliness.  I  pretend  neither  to  enume- 
rate nor  perceive  them  all,  for  it  may  be  generally  observed  that 
whatever  good  there  may  be,  desirable  by  man,  more  especially 
good  belonging  to  his  moral  nature,  there  will  be  a  corresponding 
agreeableness  in  whatever  external  object  reminds  him  of  such 
good,  whether  it  remind  him  by  arbitrary  association  or  by  typical 
resemblance,  and  that  the  infinite  ways,  whether  by  reason  or  ex- 
perience discoverable,  by  which  matter  in  some  sort  may  remind 
us  of  moral  perfections,  are  hardly  within  any  reasonable  limits  to 
be  explained,  if  even  by  any  single  mind  they  might  all  be  traced. 
Yet  certain  palpable  and  powerful  modes  there  are,  by  observing 
which,  we  may  come  at  such  general  conclusions  on  the  subject 
as  may  be  practically  useful,  and  more  than  these  I  shall  not  at- 
tempt to  obtain. 

And  first,  I  would  ask  of  the  reader  to  enter  upon  §  2.  with  what 
the  subject  with  me,  as  far  as  may  be,  as  a  little  child,  feSfng^*^to  hi 
ridding  himself  of  all  conventional  and  authoritative  ^PP^'^ached. 
thoughts,  and  especially  of  such  associations  as  arise  from  his 
respect  for  Pagan  art,  or  which  are  in  any  way  traceable  to  clas- 
sical readings.  I  recollect  that  Mr.  Alison  traces  his  first  percep- 
tions of  beauty  in  external  nature  to  this  most  corrupt  source,  thus 
betraying  so  total  and  singular  a  want  of  natural  sensibility  as 
may  well  excuse  the  deficiencies  of  his  following  arguments.  For 
tliere  was  never  yet  the  child  of  any  promise  (so  far  as  the  theo- 
retic faculties  are  concerned)  but  awaked  to  the  sense  of  beauty 


38 


OJ^'  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


with  the  first  gleam  of  reason ;  and  I  suppose  there  are  few,  among 
those  who  love  nature  otherwise  than  by  profession  and  at  second- 
hand, who  look  not  back  to  their  youngest  and  least-learned  days 
as  those  of  the  most  intense,  superstitious,  insatiable,  and  beatiiic 
perception  of  her  splendors.  And  the  bitter  decline  of  this  glo- 
rious feeling,  though  many  note  it  not,  partly  owing  to  the  cares 
and  weight  of  manhood,  which  leave  them  not  the  time  nor  the 
liberty  to  look  for  their  lost  treasure,  and  partly  to  the  human  and 
divine  affections  which  are  appointed  to  take  its  place,  yet  has 
formed  the  subject  not  indeed  of  lamentation,  but  of  holy  thank- 
fulness for  the  witness  it  bears  to  the  immortal  origin  and  end  of 
our  nature,  to  one  whose  authority  is  almost  without  appeal  in  all 
questions  relating  to  the  influence  of  external  things  upon  the 
pure  human  soul. 


"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy, — 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growing  boy. 

But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 
He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  tlie  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended. 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 


And  if  it  were  possible  for  us  to  recollect  all  the  unaccountable 
and  happy  instincts  of  the  careless  time,  and  to  reason  upon  them 
with  the  maturer  judgment,  we  might  arrive  at  more  rapid  and 
right  results  than  either  the  philosophy  or  the  sophisticated  prac- 
tice of  art  have  yet  attained.  But  we  lose  the  perceptions  before 
we  are  capable  of  methodizing  or  comparing  them. 

„  _    , .        One,  howevei',  of  these  child  instincts,  I  believe 

§  3.  The  child  '  ' 

instinct  re-      that  few  forget ;  the  emotion,  nameh^  caused  by  all 

gpecting  space.  .         ,  .    ,  . 

open  ground,  or  hues  or  any  spacious  kmd  agamst 
the  sky,  behind  which  there  miglit  be  conceived  the  sea.  It  is  an 
emotion  more  pure  than  that  caused  by  the  sea  itself,  for  I  recol- 
lect distinctly  running  down  behind  the  banks  of  a  high  beach  to 
get  their  land  line  cutting  against  tlie  sky,  and  receiving  a  more 
strange  delight  from  this  than  from  the  sight  of  the  ocean :  I  am 


sr.  I.  ciL  v.] 


I.    OB  INFIISITY. 


39 


not  sure  that  this  feehng  is  coramon  to  all  children,  (or  would  be 
common  if  they  were  all  in  circumstances  admitting  it,)  but  I  have 
ascertained  it  to  be  frequent  among  those  who  possess  the  most 
vivid  sensibilities  for  nature ;  and.  I  am  certain  that  the  modifica- 
tion of  it,  which  belongs  to  our  after  years,  is  common  to  all,  the 
love,  namely,  of  a  light  distance  appearing  over  a  comparativ?l\ 
dark  horizon.  This  I  have  tested  too  frequently  to  be  mistaken, 
by  offering  to  indifferent  spectators  forms  of  equal  abstract  beauty 
in  half  tint,  relieved,  the  one  against  dark  sky,  the  other  against 
a  bright  distance.  The  preference  is  invariably  given  to  the  latter, 
and  it  is  very  certain  that  this  preference  arises  not  from  any  sup- 
position of  there  being  greater  truth  in  this  than  the  other,  for  the 
same  preference  is  imhesitatingly  accorded  to  tlie  same  effect  in 
nature  herself.  Whatever  beauty  there  may  result  §  4  continued 
from  effects  of  light  on  foreground  objects,  from  the  i^^^terhfe. 
dew  of  the  grass,  the  flash  of  the  cascade,  the  glitter  of  the  birch 
trunk,  or  the  fair  daylight  hues  of  darker  things,  (and  joyfulness 
there  is  in  all  of  tliem,)  there  is  yet  a  light  which  the  eye  invaria- 
bly seeks  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  the  beautiful,  the  light  of  the 
declining  or  breaking  day,  and  the  flakes  of  scarlet  cloud  burning 
like  watch-fires  in  the  green  sky  of  the  horizon ;  a  deeper  feeling, 
I  say,  not  perhaps  more  acute,  but  having  more  of  spiritual  hope* 
and  longing,  less  of  animal  and  present  life,  more  manifest,  inva- 
riably, in  those  of  more  serious  and  determined  mind,  (I  use  the 
Avord  serious,  not  as  being  opposed  to  cheerful,  but  to  trivial  and 
volatile ;)  but,  I  think,  marked  and  unfailing  even  in  those  of  the 
least  thoughtful  dispositions.  I  am  willing  to  let  it  rest  on  the 
determination  of  every  reader,  whether  the  pleasui'e  which  he  has 
received  from  these  effects  of  calm  and  luminous  distance  be  not 
the  most  singular  and  memorable  of  which  he  has  been  conscious, 
whether  all  that  is  dazzling  in  color,  perfect  in  form,  gladdening  in 
expression,  be  not  of  evanescent  and  shallow  appealing,  when 
compared  with  the  still  small  voice  of  the  level  twilight  behind 
purple  hills,  or  the  scarlet  arch  of  dawn  over  the  dark,  troublous- 
edged  sea. 

Let  us  try  to  discover  that  which  effects  of  this     .  „- 

^  o.   W Hereto 

kmd  possess  or  suggest,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  this  instinct  is 

which  other  effects  of  light  and  color  possess  not. 

There  must  be  something  in  them  of  a  peculiar  character,  and 


40 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


that,  whatever  it  be,  must  be  one  of  the  primal  and  most  earnest 
motives  of  beauty  to  human  sensation. 

Do  they  show  finer  characters  of  form  than  can  be  developed 
by  the  broader  da}' light  ?  Not  so  ;  for  their  power  is  almost  in- 
dependent of  the  forms  they  assume  or  display ;  it  matters  little 
whether  the  bright  clouds  be  simple  or  manifold,  whether  the 
mountain  line  be  subdued  or  majestic,  the  fairer  forms  of  earthly 
things  are  by  them  subdued  and  disguised,  the  round  and  muscu- 
lar growth  of  the  forest  trunks  is  sunk  into  skeleton  lines  of  quiet 
shade,  the  purple  clefts  of  the  hill-side  are  labyrinthed  in  the  dark- 
ness, the  orbed  spring  and  whirling  wave  of  the  torrent  have  given 
place  to  a  white,  ghastly,  interrupted  gleaming.  Have  they  more 
perfection  or  fulness  of  color  ?  Not  so  ;  for  their  effect  is  often- 
times deeper  when  their  hues  are  dim,  than  when  they  are  blaz- 
oned with  crimson  and  pale  gold ;  and  assuredly,  in  the  blue  of 
the  rainy  sky,  in  the  many  tints  of  morning  flowers,  in  the  sunlight 
on  summer  foliage  and  field,  there  are  more  sources  of  mere  sen- 
sual color-pleasure  than  in  the  single  streak  of  wan  and  dying 
light.  It  is  not  then  by  nobler  form,  it  is  not  by  positiveness  of 
hue,  it  is  not  by  intensity  of  light,  (for  the  sun  itself  at  noonday  is 
effectless  upon  the  feelings,)  that  this  strange  distant  space  pos- 
•sesses  its  attractive  power.  But  there  is  one  thing  that  it  htis,  or 
suggests,  which  no  other  object  of  sight  suggests  in  equal  degree, 
and  that  is, — Infinity.  It  is  of  all  visible  things  the  least  mate- 
rial, the  least  finite,  the  farthest  withdrawn  from  the  earth  prison- 
house,  the  most  typical  of  the  nature  of  God,  the  most  suggestive 
oi  the  glory  of  his  dwelling-place.  For  the  sky  of  night,  though 
we  may  know  it  boundless,  is  dark,  it  is  a  studded  vault,  a  roof 
that  seems  to  shut  us  in  and  down,  but  the  bright  distance  has  no 
limit,  we  feel  its  infinity,  as  we  rejoice  in  its  purity  of  light. 
n    ^  ^  Now  not  onlv  is  this  expression  of  infinity  in  dis- 

§  6.     Infinity  ^    .  ^  n    i   •  i 

how  necessary  tance  most  prccious  wherever  we  nnd  it,  however 
solitary  it  may  be,  and  however  unassisted  by  othei 
forms  and  kinds  of  beauty,  but  it  is  of  that  value  that  no  sucli 
other  forms  will  altogether  recompense  us  for  its  loss ;  and  muck 
as  I  dread  the  enunciation  of  anything  that  may  seem  like  a  con- 
ventional rule,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  asserting,  that  no  work  of 
any  art,  in  which  this  expression  of  infinity  is  possible,  can  be 
perfect,  or  supremely  elevated  without  it,  and  that,  in  proportion 


6C.  1   CH.  v.] 


I.   OF  INFINITY. 


41 


to  its  presence,  it  -will  exalt  and  render  impressi\e  even  the  most 
tame  and  trivial  themes.  And  I  think  if  there  be  any  one  grand 
division,  by  which  it  is  at  all  possible  to  set  the  productions  of 
painting,  so  far  as  their  mere  plan  or  system  is  concerned,  on  our 
right  and  left  hands,  it  is  this  of  light  and  dark  background,  of 
heaven  light  or  of  object  light.  For  I  know  not  any  truly  great 
painter  of  any  time,  who  manifests  not  the  most  intense  pleasure 
in  the  luminous  space  of  his  backgrounds,  or  who  ever  sacrifice? 
this  pleasure  where  the  nature  of  his  subject  admits  of  its  attain- 
ment, as  on  the  other  hand  I  know  not  that  the  habitual  use  of 
dark  backerrounds  can  be  shown  as  havin(T  ever  been  co-existent 
with  pure  or  high  feeling,  and,  except  in  the  case  of  Rembrandt, 
(and  then  under  peculiar  circumstances  only,)  with  any  high  power 
of  intellect.  It  is  however  necessary  carefully  to  observe  the  fol- 
lowing modifications  of  this  broad  principle. 

The  absolute  necessity,  for  such  indeed  I  consider  §  7  conditiona 
it,  is  of  no  more  than  such  a  mere  luminous  distant  of  its'^^'cessity. 
point  as  may  give  to  the  feelings  a  species  of  escape  from  all  the 
finite  objects  about  them.  There  is  a  spectral  etching  of  Rem- 
brandt, a  presentation  of  Christ  in  the  temple,  where  the  figure 
of  a  robed  priest  stands  glaring  by  its  gems  out  of  the  gloom, 
holding  a  crosier.  Behind  it  there  is  a  subdued  window  light 
seen  in  the  opening  between  two  columns,  without  which  the  im- 
pressiveness  of  the  whole  subject  would,  I  think,  be  incalculably 
brought  down.  I  cannot  tell  whether  1  am  at  present  alloAving 
too  much  weight  to  my  own  fancies  and  predilections,  but  without 
so  much  escape  into  the  outer  air  and  open  heaven  as  this,  I  can 
take  permanent  pleasure  in  no  picture. 

And  1  think  I  am  supported  in  this  feeling  bv  the 
unanimous  practice,  11  not  the  coniessed  opinion,  01  nected  anaio- 
all  artists.  The  painter  of  portrait  is  unhappy  with- 
out  his  conventional  white  stroke  under  the  sleeve,  or  beside  the 
arm-chair ;  the  painter  of  interiors  feels  like  a  caged  bird,  unless 
he  can  throw  a  window  open,  or  set  the  door  ajar ;  the  landscapist 
dares  not  lose  himself  in  forest  without  a  Heam  of  litrht  under  its 
faiihest  branches,  nor  ventures  out  in  rain,  unless  he  may  some- 
where pierce  to  a  better  promise  in  the  distance,  or  cling  to  some 
closing  gap  of  variable  blue  above ; — escape,  hope,  infinity,  by 
whatever  conventionaUsm  sought,  the  desire  is  the  same  in  all 


42 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  m. 


the  instinct  constant,  it  is  no  mere  point  of  light  that  is  wanted 
in  tlie  etching  of  Rembrandt  above  instanced,  a  gleam  of  armor 
or  fold  of  temple  curtain  would  have  been  utterly  valueless,  neither 
is  it  liberty,  for  though  we  cut  down  hedges  and  level  hills,  and 
give  what  waste  and  plam  we  choose,  on  the  right  hand  and  the 
left,  it  is  all  comfortless  and  undesired,  so  long  as  we  cleave  not  a 
way  of  escape  forward ;  and  however  narrow  and  thorny  and 
difficult  the  nearer  path,  it  matters  not,  so  only  that  the  clouds 
open  for  us  at  its  close.  JSTeither  will  any  amount  of  beauty  in 
nearer  form,  make  us  content  to  stay  with  it,  so  long  as  we  are 
shut  down  to  that  alone,  nor  is  any  form  so  cold  or  so  hurtful  but 
that  we  may  look  upon  it  with  kindness,  so  only  that  it  rise  against 
the  infinite  hope  of  light  beyond.  The  reader  can  follow  out  the 
analogies  of  this  unassisted. 

5  9.  How  the  But  although  this  narrow  portal  of  escape  be  all  that 
menf is^^pTo-  IS  absolutely  necessary,  I  think  that  the  dignity  of  the 
thr^expression  P^i^^^i^^g  iucrcascs  witli  the  extent  and  amount  of  the 
ofintiuity.  expressiou.  With  the  earlier  and  mightier  painters 
of  Italy,  the  practice  is  commonly  to  leave  their  distance  of  pure 
and  open  sky,  of  such  simplicity,  that  it  in  nowise  shall  interfere 
with  or  draw  the  attention  from  the  interest  of  the  figures,  and  of 
such  purity,  that  especially  towards  the  horizon,  it  shall  be  in  the 
highest  degree  expressive  of  the  infinite  space  of  heaven.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  they  did  tliis  with  any  occult  or  metaphys- 
ical motives.  They  did  it,  I  think,  with  the  child-like,  unpretend- 
ing simplicity  of  all  earnest  men ;  they  did  what  they  loved  and 
felt ;  they  sought  what  the  heart  naturally  seeks,  and  gave  what 
it  most  gratefully  receives ;  and  I  look  to  them  as  in  all  points  of 
principle  (not,  observe,  of  knowledge  or  empirical  attainment)  as 
the  most  irrefragable  authorities,  precisely  on  account  of  the  child- 
like innocence,  which  never  deemed  itself  authoritative,  but  acted 
upon  desire,  and  not  upon  dicta,  and  sought  for  sympathy,  not  for 
adiniration. 

§  10.  Examples  ^1^^  SO  we  find  the  same  simple  and  sweet  treat- 
Southern^  mcut,  the  opcu  sky,  the  tender,  unpretending,  hori- 
Bchoois.  zontal  white  clouds,  the  far  winding  and  abundant 

landscape,  in  Giotto,  Taddeo,  Gaddi,  Laurati,  Angelico,  Benozzo, 
Ghirlandaio,  Francia,  Perugino,  and  the  young  Raffaelle,  the  first 
symptom  of  conventionality  appearing  in  Perugino,  who,  though 


6C.  I.  CH.  V.  I 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


43 


with  intense  feeling  of  light  and  color  he  carried  the  glory  of  his 
luminous  distance  far  beyond  all  his  predecessors,  began  at  the 
same  time  to  use  a  somewhat  morbid  relief  of  his  fii>'ures  ao;ainsi 
the  upper  sky.  Thus  in  the  Assumption  of  the  Florentine  Acad 
emy,  in  that  of  I'Annunziata ;  and  of  the  Gallery  of  Bologna,  in 
axl  which  pictures  the  lo^^  er  portions  are  incomparably  the  finest, 
owing  to  the  light  distance  behind  the  heads.  Raffaelle,  in  his 
fall,  betrayed  the  faith  he  had  received  from  his  father  and  his 
master,  and  substituted  for  the  radiant  sky  of  the  Madonna  dei 
Cardellino,  the  chamber- wall  of  the  Madonna  della  Sediola — and 
the  brown  wainscot  of  the  Baldacchino.  Yet  it  is  curious  to  ob- 
serve how  much  of  the  dignity  even  of  his  later  pictures,  depends 
on  such  portions  as  the  green  light  of  the  lake,  and  sky  behind  the 
rocks,  in  the  St.  John  of  the  tribune,  and  how  the  repainted  dis- 
tortion of  the  Madonna  dell'  Impannata,  is  redeemed  into  some- 
thing like  elevated  character,  merely  by  the  fight  of  the  linen 
window  from  which  it  takes  its  name. 

That  w^nch  by  the  Florentines  was  done  in  pure  §  n.  Among 
simplicity  of  heart,  was  done  by  the  Venetians  with  Venetians, 
intense  love  of  the  color  and  splendor  of  the  sky  itself,  even  to  the 
frequent  sacrificing  of  their  subject  to  the  passion  of  its  distance. 
In  Carpaccio,  John  Bellini,  Giorgione,  Titian,  Veronese,  and  Tin- 
toret,  the  preciousness  of  the  luminous  sky,  so  far  as  it  might  be 
at  all  consistent  with  their  subject,  is  nearly  constant ;  abandoned 
altogether  in  portraiture  only,  seldom  even  there,  and  never  w4th 
advantage.  Titian  and  Veronese,  who  had  less  exalted  feeling 
than  the  others,  aftbrding  a  few  instances  of  exception,  the  latter 
overpowering  his  silvery  distances  with  foreground  splendor,  the 
other  sometimes  sacrificing  them  to  a  luscious  fulness  of  color,  as 
in  the  Flagellation  in  the  Louvre,  by  a  comparison  of  which  with 
the  unequalled  majesty  of  the  Entombment  opposite,  the  whole 
power  and  applicability  of  the  general  principle  may  at  once  be 
tested. 

But  of  the  value  of  this  mode  of  treatment  there  is 

p   ,        .        ,       .        §  12.  Among 

a  farther  and  more  convmcmg  proof  than  its  adoption  the  painters  of 
either  by  the  innocence  of  the  Florentine  or  the  ardor  ^'^^^^^'^p*^- 
of  the  Venetian,  namely,  that  when  retained  or  imitated  from  them 
by  the  landscape  painters  of  the  seventeenth  century,  w^hen  ap- 
pearing In  isolation  from  all  other  good,  among  the  weaknesses 


44 


I.   OF  INFINITY. 


[part  iil 


and  paltrinesses  of  Claude,  the  mannerisms  of  Gaspar,  and  tlie 
caricatures  and  brutalities  of  Salvator,  it  yet  redeems  and  upLolds 
all  three,  conquers  all  foulness  by  its  purity,  vindicates  all  folly  by 
its  dignity,  and  puts  an  uncomprehended  power  of  permanent  ad- 
dress to  the  human  heart,  upon  the  lips  of  the  senseless  and  the 
profane."^ 

§  13.  other  Now,  although  I  doubt  not  that  the  general  value 
X%^T'lf  of  tliis  treatment  will  be  acknowledged  by  all  lovers 
infinity  is  felt,  ^^f  r^y^^  jg  j^q^  certain  that  the  point  to  prove  which 
I  have  brought  it  forward,  will  be  as  readily  conceded,  namely, 
the  inherent  power  of  all  representations  of  infinity  over  the  human 
heart ;  for  there  are,  indeed,  countless  associations  of  pure  and 
religious  kind,  which  combine  with  each  other  to  enhance  the  im- 
pression, when  presented  in  this  particular  form,  whose  power  I 
neither  deny  nor  am  careful  to  distinguish,  seeing  that  they  all 
tend  to  the  same  Divine  point,  and  have  reference  to  heavenly 
hopes  ;  delights  they  are  in  seeing  the  narrow,  black,  miserable 
earth  fairly  compared  with  the  bright  firmament,  reachings  for- 
ward unto  the  things  that  are  before,  and  joyfulness  in  the 
apparent  though  unreachable  nearness  and  promise  of  them. 
But  there  are  other  modes  in  which  infinity  may  be  represented, 
which  are  confused  by  no  associations  of  the  kind,  and  which 
would,  as  being  in  mere  matter,  appear  trivial  and  mean,  but  for 

I'  In  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  of  the  Pitti  palace,  over  the  door,  is  a  tempta- 
tion of  St.  Anthony,  by  Salvator,  wherein  such  power  as  the  artist  possessed 
is  fully  manifested,  with  little,  comparatively,  that  is  offensive.  It  is  a  vigor- 
ous and  ghastly  thought,  in  that  kind  of  horror  which  is  dependent  on  scenic 
effect,  perhaps  unrivalled,  and  I  shall  have  occasion  to  refer  to  it  again  in 
speaking  of  the  powers  of  imagination.  1  allude  to  it  here,  because  the  sky 
of  the  distance  affords  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  power  of  light  at  present 
under  discussion.  It  is  formed  of  flakes  of  black  cloud,  with  rents  and  open- 
ings of  intense  and  lurid  green,  and  at  least  half  of  the  impressiveness  of  the 
picture  depends  on  these  openings.  Close  them,  make  the  sky  one  mass  of 
gloom,  and  the  spectre  will  be  awful  no  longer.  It  owes  to  the  light  of  the 
distance  both  its  size  and  its  spirituality.  The  time  would  fail  me  if  I  were  to 
name  the  tenth  part  of  the  pictures  which  occur  to  me,  whose  vulgarity  is  re- 
deemed by  this  circumstance  alone,  and  yet  let  not  the  artist  trust  to  such 
morbid  and  conventional  use  of  it  as  may  be  seen  in  the  common  blue  and 
yellow  effectism  of  the  present  day.  Of  the  value  of  moderation  and  sim- 
plicity in  the  use  o.f  this,  as  of  all  other  sources  of  pleasurable  emotion,  I  shall 
presently  have  occasion  to  speak  farther. 


sc.  I.  CH.  "V.J 


OF   lYPICAL  BEAUTY„ 


45 


their  incalculable  influence  on  the  forms  of  all  thaf  we  feel  to  be 
beautiful.  The  first  of  these  is  the  curvature  of  lines  ^  ^4  r^jg  ^^^^ 
and  surfaces,  wherein  it  at  first  appears  futile  to  of  curvature, 
insist  upon  any  resemblance  or  suggestion  of  infinity,  since  there 
is  certainly  in  our  ordinary  contemplation  of  it,  no  sensation  of 
the  kind.  But  I  have  repeated  again  and  again  that  the  ideas  of 
beauty  are  instinctive,  and  that  it  is  only  upon  consideration,  and 
even  then  in  doubtful  and  disputable  way,  that  they  appear  in 
their  typical  character ;  neither  do  I  intend  at  all  to  insist  upon 
the  particular  meaning  which  they  appear  to  myself  to  bear,  but 
merely  on  their  actual  and  demonstrable  agreeableness,  so  that,  in 
the  present  case,  while  I  assert  positively,  and  have  no  fear  of 
being  able  to  prove,  that  a  curve  of  any  kind  is  more  beautiful 
than  a  right  line,  I  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  accept  or  not,  as  he 
pleases,  that  reason  of  its  agreeableness,  which  is  the  only  one 
that  I  can  at  all  trace,  namely,  that  every  curve  divides  itself 
infinitely  by  its  changes  of  direction. 

That  all  forms  of  acknowleds^ed  beauty  are  com-  _ 
posed  exclusively  01  curves  will,  i  beiieve,  be  at  once  stant  m  exter 
allowed  ;  but  that  which  there  will  be  need  more 
especially  to  prove,  is  the  subtilty  and  constancy  of  curvature  in 
all  natural  forms  whatsoever.  I  believe  that,  except  in  crystals, 
in  certain  mountain  forms  admitted  for  the  sake  of  sublimity  or 
contrast,  (as  in  the  slope  of  debris,)  in  rays  of  light,  in  the  levels 
of  calm  water  and  alluvial  land,  and  in  some  few  organic  devel- 
opments, there  are  no  lines  nor  surfaces  of  nature  without  curva- 
ture, though  as  we  before  saw  in  clouds,  more  especially  in  theii 
imder  lines  towards  the  horizon,  and  in  vast  and  extended  plains, 
right  lines  are  often  suggested  which  are  not  actual.  Without 
these  we  could  not  be  sensible  of  the  value  of  the  contrasting: 
curves,  and  while,  therefore,  for  the  most  part,  the  eye  is  fed  in 
natural  forms  with  a  grace  of  curvature  which  no  hand  nor 
instrument  can  follow,  other  means  are  provided  to  give  beauty 
to  those  surfaces  which  are  admitted  for  contrast,  as  in  water  by 
its  reflection  of  the  gradations  which  it  possesses  not  itself.  In 
ireshly-broken  ground,  which  nature  has  not  yet  had  time  to 
model,  in  quarries  and  pits  which  are  none  of  her  cutting,  in  those 
convulsions  and  evidences  of  convulsion,  of  whose  influence  on 
ideal  landscape  I  shall  presently  have  occasion  to  speak,  and 


40 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[PAKT  Til. 


generally  in  all  ruin  and  disease,  and  interference  of  one  order  ot 
being  with  another,  (as  in  the  cattle  line  of  park  trees,)  the  curves 
vanish,  and  violently  opposed  or  broken  and  unmeaning  lines  take 
their  place. 

What  curvature  is  to  lines,  gradation  is  to  shades 

^  16.    The  .  .        .  ^ 

beauty  of  gra-  and  colors.  It  is  their  infinity,  and  divides  them  into 
an  infinite  number  of  degrees.  Absolutely,  without 
gradation  no  natural  surface  can  possibly  be>  except  under  cir- 
cumstances of  so  rare  conjunction  as  to  amount  to  a  lusus  naturae  ; 
for  we  have  seen  that  fcAV  surfaces  are  without  curvature,  and 
every  curved  surface  must  be  gradated  by  the  nature  of  light, 
which  is  most  intense  when  it  impinges  at  the  highest  angle,  and 
for  the  gradation  of  the  few  plane  surfaces  that  exist,  means  are 
provided  in  local  color,  aerial  perspective,  reflected  lights,  etc., 
from  which  it  is  but  barely  conceivable  that  they  should  ever 
escape.  Hence  for  instances  of  the  complete  absence  of  gradation 
we  must  look  to  man's  work,  or  to  his  disease  and  decrepitude. 
Compare  the  gradated  colors  of  the  rainbow  with  the  stripes  of  a 
target,  and  the  gradual  concentration  of  the  youthful  blood  in  the 
cheek  with  an  abrupt  patch  of  rouge,  or  with  the  sharply  drawn 
veining  of  old  age. 

§  17  How  Gradation  is  so  inseparable  a  quality  of  all  natural 
found  in  Na-  shade  and  color  that  the  eye  refuses  in  art  to  under- 
stand anything  as  either,  which  appears  without  it, 
while  on  the  other  hand  nearly  all  the  gradations  of  nature  are  so 
subtile  and  between  degrees  of  tint  so  slightly  separated,  that  no 
human  hand  can  in  any  wise  equal,  or  do  anything  more  than 
suggest  the  idea  of  them.  In  proportion  to  the  space  over  which 
gradation  extends,  sand  to  its  invisible  subtilty,  is  its  grandeur, 
and  in  proportion  to  its  narrow  limits  and  violent  degrees,  its 
vulgarity.  In  Correggio,  it  is  morbid  and  vulgar  in  spite  of  its 
refinement  of  execution,  because  the  eye  is  drawn  to  it,  and  it  is 
made  the  most  observable  and  characteristic  part  of  the  picture ; 
whereas  natural  gradation  is  forever  escaping  observation  to  that 
degree  that  the  greater  part  of  artists  in  working  from  nature  see 
it  not,  (except  in  certain  of  its  marked  developments,)  but  either 
lay  down  such  continuous  lines  and  colors,  as  are  both  disagree- 
able and  impossible,  or,  receiving  the  necessity  of  gradation  as  a 
principle  instead  of  a  fact,  use  it  in  violently  exaggerated  measure; 


BC.  T.  CH.  v.] 


I.   OF  l.NFINITY. 


47 


and  so  lose  both  the  dignity  of  their  own  work,  and  by  the  con- 
stant dweilmg  of  their  eyes  upon  exaggerations,  their  sensibility 
to  that  of  the  natural  forms.  So  that  we  find  the  majority  of 
painters  divided  between  the  two  evil  extremes  of  insufficiency 
and  affectation,  and  only  a  few  of  the  greatest  men  capable  of 
making  gradation  constant  and  yet  extended  over  enormous  spaces 
and  within  degrees  of  narrow  difference,  as  in  the  body  of  a  high 
light. 

From  the  necessity  of  gradation  results  what  is  ^  |g  jj^^ 
commonly  given  as  a  rule  of  art,  though  its  authority  pessary  in  Art 
as  a  rule  obtains  only  from  its  being  a  fact  of  nature,  that  the. 
extremes  of  high  light  and  pure  color,  can  exist  only  in  points. 
The  common  rules  respecting  sixths  and  eigliths,  held  concerning 
light  and  shade,  are  entirely  absurd  and  conventional ;  according 
to  the  subject  and  the  effect  of  light,  the  greater  part  of  the 
picture  will  be  or  ought  to  be  light  or  dark ;  but  that  principle 
which  is  not  conventional,  is  that  of  all  light  however  high,  there 
is  some  part  that  is  higher  than  the  rest,  and  that  of  all  color, 
however  pure,  there  is  some  part  that  is  purer  than  the  rest,  and 
that  generally  of  all  shade,  however  deep,  there  is  some  part 
deeper  than  the  rest,  though  this  last  fact  is  frequently  sacrificed 
in  art,  owing  to  the  narrowness  of  its  means.  But  on  the  right 
gradation  or  focussing  of  light  and  color  depends  in  great  mea- 
sure, the  value  of  both.  Of  this,  I  have  spoken  sufficiently  in 
pointing  out  the  singular  constancy  of  it  in  the  works  of  Turner. 
Part  II.  Sect.  II.  Chap.  II.  §  17.  And  it  is  generally  to  be 
observed  that  even  raw  and  valueless  color,  if  rightly  and  subtilely 
gradated  will  in  some  measure  stand  for  light,  and  that  the  most 
transparent  and  perfect  hue  will  be  in  some  measure  unsatisfac- 
tory, if  entirely  unvaried.  I  believe  the  early  skies  of  RafFaelle 
owe  their  luminousness  more  to  their  untraceable  and  subtile 
gradation  than  to  inherent  quality  of  hue. 

Such  are  the  expressions  of  infinity  which  we  fitid  §  19.  infinity 
in  creation,  of  which  the  importance  is  to  be  esti-  piie(f  b'y^^J' 
mated,  rather  by  their  frequency  than  their  distinct- 
ness.  Let,  however,  the  reader  bear  constantly  in  mind  that  I 
insist  not  on  his  accepting  any  interpretation  of  mine,  but  only  on 
his  dwelling  so  long  on  those  objects,  which  he  perceives  to  be 
beautiful,  as  to  determine  whether  the  qualities  to  which  I  trace. 


48 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


their  beauty,  be  necessarily  there  or  no.  Farther  expressions  of 
infinity  there  are  in  the  mystery  of  nature,  and  in  some  measure 
in  her  vastness,  but  these  are  dependent  on  our  own  imperfec* 
tions,  and  therefore,  though  they  produce  subhmity,  they  are 
unconnected  with  beauty.  For  that  which  we  foohshly  call  vast- 
ness is,  rightly  considered,  not  more  wonderful,  not  more  im- 
pressive, than  that  which  we  insolently  call  littleness,  and  the 
infinity  of  God  is  not  mysterious,  it  is  only  unfathomable,  not 
concealed,  but  incomprehensible  :  it  is  a  clear  infinity,  the  dark- 
ness of  the  pure  unsearchable  sea. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


OP  UNITY,   OR  THE  TYPE  OF  THE  DIVINE  COMPREHENSIVENESS. 

"  All  things,"  says  Hooker,  "  (God  only  excepted,)  ^  ^  ^^^^  ^^^^ 
besides  the  nature  which  they  have  in  themselves,  rai  conceptioc 

P      '       c  ^  •         -)•>  <jf  divine  Uuity. 

receive  externally  some  periection  irom  otner  things. 
Hence  the  appearance  of  separation  or  isolation  in  anything,  and 
of  self-dependence,  is  an  appearance  of  imperfection :  aD  1  all 
appearances  of  connection  and  brotherhood  are  pleasant  and  right, 
both  as  significative  of  perfection  in  the  things  united,  and  as 
typical  of  that  Unity  which  we  attribute  to  God,  and  of  which 
our  true  conception  is  rightly  explained  and  limited  by  Dr.  Brown 
in  his  XCIL  lecture ;  that  Unity  which  consists  not  in  his  own 
singleness  or  separation,  but  in  the  necessity  of  his  inherence  in 
all  things  that  be,  without  which  no  creature  of  any  kind  could 
hold  existence  for  a  moment.  Which  necessity  of  Divine  essence 
I  think  it  better  to  speak  of  as  comprehensiveness,  than  as  unity, 
because  unity  is  often  understood  in  the  sense  of  oneness  or 
singleness,  instead  of  universality,  whereas  the  only  Unity  which 
by  any  means  can  become  grateful  or  an  object  of  hope  to  men, 
and  whose  types  therefore  in  material  things  can  be  beautiful,  is 
that  on  which  turned  the  last  words  and  prayer  of  Christ  before 
his  crossing  of  the  Kidron  brook.  "  Neither  pray  I  for  these 
alone,  but  for  them  also  which  shall  believe  on  me  through  their 
word.  That  they  all  may  be  one,  as  thou.  Father,  art  in  me,  and 
I  in  thee." 

And  so  there  is  not  any  matter,  nor  any  spirit,  nor  ^  ^  tj^^  ^^^^^ 
any  creature,  but  it  is  capable  of  an  unity  of  some  of  aii  things  ih 

1  .       1  ...       their  Unity. 

kind  with  other  creatures,  and  in  that  unity  is  its 
perfection  and  theirs,  and  a  pleasure  also  for  the  beholding  of  all 
other  creatures  that  can  behold.    So  the  unity  of  spirits  is  partly 
in  their  sympathy,  and  partly  in  their  giving  and  taking,  and  al- 
ways in  their  love  ;  and  these  are  their  delight  and  their  strength, 

VOL.  II.  3 


50 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


for  their  strength  is  in  their  co-working  and  army  fellowship,  and 
their  delight  is  in  the  giving  and  receiving  of  alternate  and  per- 
petual currents  of  good,  their  inseparable  dependency  on  each 
other's  being,  and  their  essential  and  perfect  depending  on  their 
Creator's :  and  so  the  unity  of  earthly  creatures  is  their  power 
and  their  peace,  not  lik(.  the  dead  and  cold  peace  of  undisturbed, 
stones  and  solitary  mountains,  but  the  living  peace  of  trust,  and 
the  living  power  of  support,  of  hands  that  hold  each  other  and 
are  still :  and  so  the  unity  of  matter  is,  in  its  noblest  form,  the 
organization  of  it  which  builds  it  up  into  temples  for  the  spirit, 
and  in  its  lower  form,  the  sweet  and  strange  affinity,  which  gives 
to  it  the  glory  of  its  orderly  elements,  and  the  fair  variety  of 
change  and  assimilation  that  turns  the  dust  into  the  crystal,  and 
separates  the  waters  that  be  above  the  firmament  from  the  water? 
that  be  beneath,  and  in  its  lowest  form ;  it  is  the  working  and 
walking  and  clinging  together  that  gives  their  power  to  the  winds, 
and  its  syllables  and  soundings  to  the  air,  and  tlieir  weight  to  the 
waves,  and  their  burning  to  the  sunbeams,  and  their  stability  to 
the  mountains,  and  to  every  creature  whatsoever  operation  is  for 
its  glory  and  for  others  good. 

Now  of  that  which  is  thus  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  all 
things,  all  appearance,  sign,  type,  or  suggestion  must  be  beauti- 
ful, in  whatever  matter  it  may  appear.  And  so  to  the  perfectiou 
of  beauty  in  lines,  or  colors,  or  forms,  or  masses,  or  multitudes, 
the  appearance  of  some  species  of  unity  is  in  the  most  determined 
sense  of  the  word  essential. 

^  3  The  seve-      "^^^  appearances  of  unity,  as  of  unity  itself, 

rai  kinds  of  there  are  several  kinds  which  it  will  be  found  here- 

unib}'.  Subjec- 

tionai.    Origi-  after  Convenient  to  consider  separately.    Thus  there 

nal.    Of  se-       .      ,  .        ^  i-rn  i  /•  i  •  t 

qucnce,  and  of  IS  the  Unity  01  diiierent  and  separate  thmgs,  subjected 
membership.  ^^^^        Same  influence,  which  may  be  called 

subjectional  unity,  and  this  is  the  unity  of  the  clouds,  as  they  are 
driven  by  the  parallel  winds,  or  as  they  are  ordered  by  the  elec- 
tric currents,  and  this  the  unity  of  the  sea  waves,  and  this  of  the 
bending  and  undulation  of  the  forest  masses,  and  in  creatures  ca- 
pable of  will  it  is  the  unity  of  will  or  of  inspiration.  And  there 
is  unity  of  origin,  which  we  may  call  original  unity,  which  is  ot 
things  arising  from  one  spring  and  source,  and  speaking  always 
of  this  their  brotherhood,  and  this  in  matter  is  the  unity  of  the 


BC.  I.  CH.  VI.  I  II.   OF  UNITY.  51 

branches  of  the  trees,  and  of  the  petals  and  starry  rays  of  flowers, 
and  of  the  beams  of  hght,  and  in  spiritual  creatures  it  is  their  filial 
relation  to  Him  from  whom  they  have  their  being.  And  there  is 
unity  of  sequence,  which  is  that  of  things  that  form  links  in  chains, 
and  steps  in  ascent,  and  stages  in  journeys,  and  this,  in  matter,  is 
the  unity  of  cdmniunicable  forces  in  their  continuance  from  one 
thing  to  another,  and  it  is  the  passing  upwards  and  downwards 
of  beneficent  effects  among  all  things,  and  it  is  the  melody  of 
sounds,  and  the  beauty  of  continuous  lines,  and  the  orderly  suc- 
cession of  motions  and  times.  And  in  spiritual  creatures  it  is  their 
own  constant  building  up  by  true  knowledge  and  continuous  rea- 
soning to  higher  perfection,  and  the  singleness  and  straight-for- 
wardness of  their  tendencies  to  more  complete  communion  with 
God.  And  there  is  the  unity  of  membership,  which  we  may  call 
essential  unity,  which  is  the  unity  of  things  separately  imperfect 
into  a  perfect  whole,  and  this  is  the  great  unity  of  which  other 
unities  are  but  parts  and  means,  it  is  in  matter  the  harmony  of 
sounds  and  consistency  of  bodies,  and  among  spiritual  creatures, 
their  love  and  happiness  and  very  life  in  God. 

Now  of  the  nature  of  this  last  kind  of  unity,  the     ,  . 

§  4.    Unity  of 

most  important  whether  in  moral  or  in  those  material  membership, 
things  with  which  we  are  at  present  concerned,  there 
is  this  necessary  to  be  observed,  that  it  cannot  exist  between 
things  similar  to  each  other.  Two  or  more  equal  and  like  things 
cannot  be  members  one  of  another,  nor  can  they  form  one,  or  a 
whole  thing.  Two  they  must  remain,  both  in  nature  and  in  our 
conception,  so  long  as  they  remain  alike,  unless  they  are  united 
by  a  third  different  from  both.  Thus  the  arms,  which  are  like 
each  other,  remain  two  arms  in  our  conception.  They  could  not 
be  united  by  a  third  arm,  they  must  be  united  by  something  which 
is  not  an  arm,  and  which,  imperfect  without  them  as  they  without 
it,  shall  form  one  perfect  body ;  nor  is  unity  even  thus  accom- 
plished, without  a  difference  and  opposition  of  direction  in  the 
setting  on  of  the  like  members.  Therefore  among  all  things  which 
are  to  have  unity  of  membership  one  with  another,  there  must  be 
difference  or  variety ;  and  though  it  is  possible  that  many  like 
things  may  be  made  members  of  one  body,  yet  it  is  remarkable 
that  this  structure  appears  characteristic  of  the  lower  creatures, 
rather  than  the  higher,  as  the  many  legs  of  the  caterpillar,  and 


52 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[PAKT  III. 


the  many  arms  and  suckers  of  the  radiata,  and  that,  as  we  rise  in 
order  of  being,  the  number  of  similar  members  becomes  less,  and 
their  structure  commonly  seems  based  on  the  principle  of  the  unity 
of  two  things  by  a  third,  as  Plato  has  it  in  the  Timaeus,  §  11. 
§  5.  Variety.  Hence,  out  of  the  necessity  of  unity,  arises  that  of 
Why  required.  YSLnetjf  a  necessity  often  more  vividly,  though  never 
so  deeply  felt,  because  lying  at  the  surfaces  of  things,  and  assisted 
by  an  influential  principle  of  our  nature,  the  love  of  change,  and 
the  power  of  contrast.  But  it  is  a  mistake  which  has  led  to  many 
unfortunate  results,  in  matters  respecting  art,  to  insist  on  any  in- 
herent agreeableness  of  variety,  without  reference  to  a  farther  end. 
For  it  is  not  even  true  that  variety  as  such,  and  in  its  highest  de- 
gree, is  beautiful.  A  patched  garment  of  many  colors  is  by  no 
means  so  ao^reeable  as  one  of  a  sino^le  and  continuous  hue :  the 
splendid  colors  of  many  birds  are  eminently  painful  from  their 
violent  separation  and  inordinate  variety,  while  the  pure  and  col- 
orless swan  is,  under  certain  circumstances,  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  feathered  creatures.'^'  A  forest  of  all  manner  of  trees  is  poor, 
if  not  disagreeable  in  effect, f  a  mass  of  one  species  of  tree  is  sub- 
Ume.  It  is  therefore  only  harmonious  and  chordal  variety,  that 
variety  which  is  necessary  to  secure  and  extend  unity,  (for  the 
greater  the  number  of  objects,  which  by  their  differences  become 
members  of  one  another,  the  more  extended  and  sublime  is  their 
unity,)  which  is  rightly  agreeable,  and  so  I  name  not  variety  as 
essential  to  beauty,  because  it  is  only  so  in  a  secondary  and  casual 
sense.J 

*  Compare  Chap.  ix.  ^  5.  note. 

f  Spenser's  various  forest  is  the  Forest  of  Error. 

^  It  must  be  matter  of  no  small  wonderment  to  practical  men  to  observe 
now  grossly  the  nature  and  connection  of  unity  and  variety  have  been  mis- 
understood and  misstated,  by  those  writers  upon  taste,  who  have  been  guided 
by  no  experience  of  art :  most  singularly  perhaps  by  Mr.  AUson,  who,  con- 
founding unity  with  uniformity,  and  leading  his  readers  through  thirty  pages 
of  discussion  respecting  uniibrmity  and  variety,  the  intelligibility  of  which  ia 
not  by  any  means  increase)  1  by  his  supposing  uniformity  to  be  capable  of  ex- 
istence in  single  things ;  at  last  substitutes  for  these  two  terms,  sufficiently 
contradictory  already,  those  of  similarity  arid  dissimilarity,  the  reconciUation 
of  which  opposites  in  one  thing  we  must,  I  believe,  leave  Mr.  Alison  to  ac- 
complish. 


6C.  I.  CH.  Vl.] 


II.    OF  UNITY. 


53 


Of  the  love  of  change  as  a  principle  of  human  na-  ^  ^  change 
ture,  and  the  pleasantness  of  variety  resultinor  from  it,  and  its  influ- 

1  •       11       I     I  -1    ^r-^^     ttt    t   ^  \      i     cnce  on  bcauty. 

somethmg  has  already  been  said,  (Ch.  iV.  ^  4^)  only 
as  there  I  was  opposing  the  idea  that  our  being  familiar  with  ob- 
jects was  the  cause  of  our  delight  in  them,  so  here,  I  have  tc 
oppose  the  contrary  position,  that  their  strangeness  is  the  cause 
of  it.  For  neither  familiarity  nor  strangeness  have  more  opera- 
tion on,  or  connection  with,  impressions  of  one  sense  than  of  an- 
other, and  they  have  less  power  over  the  impressions  of  sense 
generally,  than  over  the  intellect  in  its  joyful  accepting  of  fresh 
knowledge,  and  dull  contemplation  of  that  it  has  long  possessed. 
Only  in  their  operation  on  the  senses  they  act  contrarily  at  differ- 
ent times,  as  for  instance  the  newness  of  a  dress  or  of  some  kind 
of  unaccustomed  food  may  make  it  for  a  time  delightful,  but  as 
the  novelty  passes  away,  so  also  may  the  delight,  yielding  to  dis- 
gust or  indifference,  which  in  their  turn,  as  custom  begins  to 
operate,  may  pass  into  affection  and  craving,  and  that  which  was 
first  a  luxury,  and  then  a  matter  of  indifierence,  becomes  a  neces- 
sity '.^  whereas  in  subjects  of  the  intellect,  the  chief  delight  they 
convey  is  dependent  upon  their  being  newly  and  vividly  compre- 
hended, and  as  they  become  subjects  of  contemplation  they  lose 
their  value,  and  become  tasteless  and  unregarded,  except  as  instru- 
ments for  the  reaching  of  others,  only  that  though  they  sink  down 
into  the  shadowy,  effectless,  heap  of  things  indifferent,  which  we 
pack,  and  crush  down,  and  stand  upon,  to  reach  things  new,  they 
sparkle  afresh  at  intervals  as  we  stir  them  by  throwing  a  new  stone 
into  the  heap,  and  letting  (he  newly  admitted  lights  play  upon 
them.  And  both  in  subjects  of  the  intellect  and  the  senses  it 
is*  to  be  remembered,  that  the  love  of  change  is  a  weakness  and 
imperfection  of  our  nature,  and  implies  in  it  the  state  of  probation, 
and  that  it  is  to  teach  us  that  things  about  us  here  are  not  meant 
for  our  continual  possession  or  satisfaction,  that  ever  such  passion 
of  change  was  put  in  us  as  that  "  custom  lies  upon  us  with  a  weight, 
heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life,"  and  only  such  weak  back 
and  baby  grasp  given  to  our  intellect  as  that  "  the  best  things  we 
do  are  painful,  and  the  exercise  of  them  grievous,  being  continued 
without  intermission,  so  as  in  those  very  actions  whereby  we  are 

♦  Kai  TO  ravTU  irpamtv  TroAXd/ctj  f}dv' — rd  yap  (Tvvr}Oe^  ri6v  ijv*  Kai  to  jUcra/5aXX«t 
^$v'  Ut  <pwiv  yap  yiyvtTai  liCTa^dWeiv, — Arist.  Rhet.  I.  II.  20. 


54 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY* 


[part  III. 


especially  perfecled  in  this  life  we  are  not  able  to  persist."  And 
§  7.  The  love  SO  it  will  be  found  that  they  are  the  weakest-minded 
morbid" and  ^^'^  ^^e  hardest-hearted  men  that  most  love  variety 
and  change,  for  the  weakest-minded  are  those  who 
both  wonder  most  at  things  new,  and  digest  worst  things  old,  in 
so  far  that  everything  they  have  lies  rusty,  and  loses  lustre  for 
want  of  use ;  neither  do  they  make  any  stir  among  their  posses- 
sions, nor  look  over  them  to  see  what  may  be  made  of  them,  nor 
keep  any  great  store,  nor  are  householders  with  storehouses  of 
things  new  and  old,  but  they  catch  at  the  new-fashioned  garments, 
and  let  the  moth  and  thief  look  after  the  rest ;  and  the  hardest- 
hearted  men  are  those  that  least  feel  the  endearing  and  binding 
power  of  custom,  and  hold  on  by  no  cords  of  affection  to  any 
shore,  but  drive  with  the  waves  that  cast  up  mire  and  dirt.  And 
certainly  it  is  not  to  be  held  that  the  perception  of  beauty  and  de- 
sire of  it,  are  greatest  in  the  hardest  heart  and  weakest  brain  ;  but 
the  love  of  variety  is  so,  and  therefore  variety  can  be  no  cause  of 
the  beautiful,  except,  as  I  have  said,  when  it  is  necessary  for  the 
perception  of  unity,  neither  is  there  any  better  test  of  that  which 
is  indeed  beautiful  than  its  surviving  or  annihilating  the  love  of 
change  ;  and  this  is  a  test  which  the  best  judges  of  art  have  need 
frequently  to  use ;  and  the  wisest  of  them  will  use  it  always,  for 
there  is  much  in  art  that  surprises  by  its  brilliancy,  or  attracts  by 
its  singularity,  that  can  hardly  but  by  course  of  time,  though  as- 
suredly it  will  by  course  of  time,  be  winnowed  away  from  the 
right  and  real  beauty  whose  retentive  power  is  forever  on  the  in- 
crease, a  bread  of  the  soul  for  which  the  hunger  is  continual. 

Receivinof,  therefore,  variety  only  as  that  which  ac- 

§  8.   The  con-  ,      ^    .  ,       .  -  .      ,  . 

ducing  of  vari-  complislics  Unity,  or  makcs  it  perceived,  its  operation 
un^ityTf^sub-  is  found  to  be  very  precious,  both  in  that  which  I 
jection.  have  called  unity  of  subjection,  and  unity  of  se- 

quence, as  well  as  in  unity  of  membership  ;  for  although  things 
in  all  respects  the  same  may,  indeed,  be  subjected  to  one  influ- 
ence, yet  the  power  of  the  influence,  and  their  obedience  to  it,  is 
best  seen  by  varied  operation  of  it  on  their  individual  differen- 
ces, as  in  clouds  and  waves  there  is  a  glorious  unity  of  rolling, 
wrought  out  by  the  wild  and  wonderful  differences  of  their  abso- 
lute forms,  which,  if  taken  away,  would  leave  in  them  only  multi- 
tudinous and  petty  repetition,  instead  of  the  majestic  oneness  of 


sc.  I.  Cri  >1.J 


II.   OF  UNITY. 


55 


shared  passion.  And  so  in  the  waves  and  clouds  of  human  mul- 
titude when  tlie^  ire  filled  with  one  thought,  as  we  find  frequently 
in  the  works  of  the  early  Italian  men  of  earnest  purpose,  who  de- 
spising, or  happily  ignorant  of,  the  sophistications  of  theories,  and 
the  proprieties  of  composition,  indicated  by  perfect  similarity  of 
action  and  gesture  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  the  infinite  and  truth- 
ful variation  of  expression  on  the  other,  the  most  sublime  strength, 
because  the  most  absorbing  unity,  of  multitudinous  passion  that 
ever  human  heart  conceived.  Hence,  in  the  cloister  of  St.  Mark's, 
the  intense,  fixed,  statue-like  silence  of  ineffable  adoration  upon 
the  spirits  in  prison  at  the  feet  of  Christ,  side  by  side,  the  hands 
lifted,  and  the  knees  bowed,  and  the  lips  trembling  together;^ 
and  in  St.  Domenico  of  Fiesole,f  that  whirlwind  rush  of  the  An- 
gels and  the  redeemed  souls  round  about  him  at  his  resurrection, 
so  that  we  hear  the  blast  of  the  horizontal  trumpets  mixed  with 
tlie  dying  clangor  of  their  ingathered  wings.  The  same  great 
feeling  occurs  throughout  the  works  of  the  serious  men,  though 
most  intensely  in  Angelico,  and  it  is  well  to  compare  with  it  the 
vileness  and  falseness  of  all  that  succeeded,  when  men  had  begun 
to  bring  to  the  cross  foot  their  systems  instead  of  theii  sorrow. 
Take  as  the  most  marked  and  degraded  instance,  perhaps,  to  bo 
anywhere  found,  Bronzino's  treatment  of  the  same  subject  (Christ 
visiting  the  spirits  in  prison,)  in  the  picture  now  in  the  Tuscan 
room  of  the  Uffizii,  which,  vile  as  it  is  in  color,  vacant  in  inven- 
tion, void  in  light  and  shade,  a  heap  of  cumbrous  nothingnesses, 
and  sickening  off^nsivenesses,  is  of  all  its  voids  most  void  in  this, 
that  the  academy  models  therein  huddled  together  at  the  bottom, 
show  not  so  much  unity  or  community  of  attention  to  the  acad- 
emy model  with  the  flag  in  its  hand  above,  as  a  street  crowd 
would  be  to  a  fresh-staged  charlatan.    Some  point  to  the  God 

*  Pra  Angelico's  fresco,  in  a  cell  of  the  upper  cloister.  He  treated  the  sub 
ject  frequently.  Another  characteristic  example  occurs  in  the  Vita  di  Christo 
of  the  Academy,  a  series  now  unfortunately  destroyed  by  the  picture  cleaners. 
Simon  Memmi  in  Santa  Maria  Novella  (Chapelle  des  Espagnols)  has  given 
another  very  beautiful  instance.  In  Giotto  the  principle  is  universal,  though 
his  multitudes  are  somewhat  more  dramatically  and  powerfully  varied  in  ges- 
ture than  Angelico's.  In  Mino  da  Fiesole's  altar-piece  in  the  church  of  St. 
Ambrogiot  at  Florence,  close  by  Cosimo  Rosselli's  fresco,  there  is  a  beautiful 
example  in  marble. 

f  The  Predella  of  the  picture  behind  the  altar. 


56 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  in 


who  has  hurst  the  gates  of  death,  as  if  the  rest  were  incapahle  of 
distinguishing  him  for  themselves,  and  others  turn  their  backs 
apon  him,  to  show  their  unagitated  faces  to  the  spectator. 
§  9    And  to  unity  of  sequence,  the  effect  of  variety  is  best 

wards  unity  of  exempHfied  by  the  melodies  of  music,  wherein  by  the 
sequence.  differences  of  the  notes,  they  are  connected  with  each 
other  in  certain  pleasant  relations.  This  connection  taking  place 
in  quantities  is  proportion,  respecting  which  certain  general  prin- 
ciples must  be  noted,  as  the  subject  is  one  open  to  many  errors, 
and  obscurely  treated  of  by  writers  on  art. 

§  10  The  na-  Proportion  is  of  two  distinct  kinds.  Apparent : 
ture  of  propor-  when  it  takes  place  between  qualities  for  the  sake  of 

tion.  1st.  ofap-  .  1         •  1  . 

parent  propor-  connection  Only,  Without  any  ultimate  object  or  casual 
necessity ;  and  constructive :  when  it  has  reference 
to  some  function  to  be  discharged  by  the  quantities,  depending  on 
their  proportion.  From  the  confusion  of  these  two  kinds  of  pro- 
portion have  arisen  the  greater  part  of  the  erroneous  conceptions 
of  the  influence  of  either. 

Apparent  proportion,  or  the  sensible  relation  of  quantities,  is 
one  of  the  most  important  means  of  obtaining  unity  between  things 
which  otherwise  must  have  remained  distinct  in  similarity,  and  as 
it  may  consist  with  every  other  kind  of  unity,  and  persist  when 
every  other  means  of  it  fails,  it  may  be  considered  as  lying  at  the 
root  of  most  of  our  impressions  of  the  beautiful.  There  is  no 
sense  of  rightness,  or  wrongness  connected  with  it,  no  sense  of 
utility,  propriety,  or  expediency.  These  ideas  enter  only  where 
the  proportion  of  quantities  has  reference  to  some  function  to  be 
performed  by  them.  It  cannot  be  asserted  that  it  is  right  or  that 
it  is  wrong  that  A  should  be  to  B,  as  B  to  C  ;  unless  A,  B,  and  C 
have  some  desirable  operation  dependent  on  that  relation.  But 
nevertheless  it  may  be  highly  agreeable  to  the  eye  that  A,  B,  and 
C,  if  visible  things,  should  have  visible  connection  of  ratio,  even 
though  nothing  be  accomplished  by  such  connection.  On  the 
other  hand,  constructive  proportion,  or  the  adaptation  of  quan- 
tities to  functions,  is  agreeable  not  to  the  eye,  but  to  the  mind, 
which  is  cognizant  of  the  function  to  be  performed.  Thus  the 
pleasantness  or  rightness  of  the  proportions  of  a  column  depends 
not  on  the  mere  relation  of  diameter  and  height,  (which  is  not 
proportion  at  all,  for  proportion  is  between  three  terms  at  least,) 


sc.  I.  CH.  VI.] 


II.   OF  UNITY. 


57 


but  on  three  other  involved  terms,  the  strength  of  materials,  the 
weight  to  be  borne,  and  ihd  scale  of  the  building.  The  propor- 
tions of  a  wooden  column  are  wrong  in  a  stone  one,  and  of  a  small 
building  wrong  in  a  large  one,*  and  this  owing  solely  to  mechan- 

*  It  seems  never  to  have  been  rightly  understood,  even  by  the  more  intelli- 
gent among  our  architects,  that  proportion  is  in  any  way  connected  with  posi- 
tive size  ;  it  seems  to  be  held  among  them  that  a  small  building  may  be  ex- 
panded to  a  large  one  merely  by  proportionally  expanding  all  its  parts  :  and 
that  l*^c  harmony  will  be  equally  agreeable  on  whatever  scale  it  be  rendered. 
Now  this  is  true  of  apparent  proportion,  but  utterly  false  of  constructive ;  and, 
as  much  of  the  value  of  architectural  proportion  is  constructive,  the  error  is 
often  productive  of  the  most  painful  results.  It  may  be  best  illustrated  by  ob- 
serving the  conditions  of  proportion  in  animals.  Many  persons  have  thought- 
lessly claimed  admiration  for  the  strength — supposed  gigantic — of  insects  and 
smaller  animals ;  because  capable  of  lifting  weights,  leaping  distances,  and 
surmounting  obstacles,  of  proportion  apparently  overwhelming.  \Thus  the 
Formica  Herculanea  will  lift  in  its  mouth,  and  brandish  like  a  baton,  sticks 
thicker  than  itself  and  six  times  its  length,  all  the  while  scrambling  over  crags 
of  about  the  proportionate  height  of  the  Cliffs  of  Dover,  three  or  four  in  a 
minute.  There  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  this,  nor  any  exertion  of  strength 
necessarily  greater  than  human,  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  body.  For  it 
IS  evident  that  if  the  size  and  strength  of  any  creature  be  expanded  or  dimin- 
ished in  proportion  to  each  other,  the  distance  through  which  it  can  leap,  the 
time  it  can  maintain  exertion,  or  any  other  third  term  resultant,  remains  con- 
stant ;  that  is,  dimiiiish  weight  of  powder  and  of  ball  proportionately,  and  the 
distance  carried  is  constant,  or  nearly  so.  Thus,  a  grasshopper,  a  man,  and 
a  giant  100  feet  high,  supposing  their  muscular  strength  equally  proportioned 
to  their  size,  can  or  could  all  leap,  not  proportionate  distance,  but  the  same  or 
nearly  the  same  distance — say,  four  feet  the  grasshopper,  or  forty-eight  times 
his  length  ;  six  feet  the  man  or  his  length  exactly  ;  ten  feet  the  giant  or  the 
tenth  of  his  length.  Hence  all  small  animals  can,  cccteris  paribus^  perform 
feats  of  strength  and  agility,  exactly  so  much  greater  than  those  to  be  executed 
by  large  ones,  as  the  animals  themselves  are  smaller;  and  to  enable  an  ele- 
phant to  leap  like  a  grasshopper,  he  must  be  endowed  with  strength  a  million 
times  greater  in  proportion  to  his  size.  Now  the  consequence  of  this  general 
mechanical  law  is,  that  as  we  increase  the  scale  of  animals,  their  means  of 
power,  whether  muscles  of  motion  or  bones  of  support,  must  be  increased  in 
a  more  than  proportionate  degree,  or  they  become  utterly  unwieldy,  and  inca- 
pable of  motion ; — and  there  is  a  limit  to  this  increase  of  strength.  If  the 
'  lephant  had  legs  as  long  as  a  spider's,  no  combination  of  animal  matter  that 
3ould  be  hide-bound  would  have  strength  enough  to  move  them :  to  support 
the  megatherium,  we  must  have  a  humerus  a  foot  in  diameter,  though  perhaps 
not  more  than  two  feet  long,  and  that  in  a  vertical  position  under  him,  while 
the  gnat  can  hang  on  the  window  frame,  and  poise  himself  to  sting,  in  the 
middle  of  crooked  stilts  like  threads  ;  stretched  out  to  ten  times  the  breadth  of 
his  body  on  each  side     Increasi  the  size  of  the  megatherium  a  little  mor^ 

3* 


58 


OF  TYPICAT.  BEAUTY. 


fPART  in 


ical  considerations,  which  have  no  more  to  do  with  ideas  of  beauty, 
than  the  relation  between  the  arms  of  a  lever,  adapted  to  the  rais- 
ing of  a  given  weight ;  and  yet  it  is  highly  agreeable  to  perceive 
that  such  constructive  proportion  has  been  duly  observed,  as  it  is 
agreeable  to  see  that  anything  is  fit  for  its  purpose  or  for  our&;  and 
also  that  it  has  been  the  result  of  intelligence  in  the  workman  of 
it,  so  that  we  sometimes  feel  a  pleasure  in  apparent  non-adapta- 
tion, if  it  be  a  sign  of  ingenuity  ;  as  in  the  unnatural  and  seem- 
ingly impossible  lightness  of  Gothic  spires  and  roofs. 

Now,  the  errors  against  which  I  would  caution  the  reader  in 
this  matter  are  three.  The  first,  is  the  overlooking  or  denial  of 
the  power  of  apparent  proportion,  of  which  power  neither  Burke 
nor  any  other  writer  whose  works  I  have  met  with,  take  cogni- 
zance. The  second,  is  the  attribution  of  beauty  to  the  appearances 
of  constructive  proportion.  The  third,  the  denial  with  Burke  of 
any  value  or  agreeableness  in  constructive  proportion. 

and  no  phosphate  of  lime  will  bear  him  :  he  would  crush  his  own  legs  to  pow- 
der. (Compare  Sir  Charles  Bell,  Bridgewater  Treatise  on  the  Hand,"  p.  296, 
and  the  note.)  Hence  there  is  not  only  a  limit  to  the  size  of  animals,  in  the 
conditions  of  matter,  but  to  their  activity  also,  the  largest  being  always  least 
capable  of  exertion  ;  and  this  would  be  the  case  to  a  far  greater  extent,  but 
that  nature  beneficently  alters  her  proportions  as  she  increases  her  scale ;  giv- 
ing, as  we  have  seen,  long  legs  and  enormous  wings  to  the  smaller  tribes,  and 
short  and  thick  proportion  to  the  larger.  So  in  vegetables — compare  the  stalk 
of  an  ear  of  oat,  and  the  trunk  of  a  pine,  the  mechanical  relations  being  in 
both  the  same.  So  also  in  waves,  of  which  the  large  never  can  be  mere  ex- 
a  <rgerations  of  the  small,  but  have  different  slopes  And  curvatures :  so  in 
mountains  and  all  things  else,  necessarily,  and  from  ordinary  mechanical 
laws.  Whence  in  architecture,  according  to  the  scale  of  the  building,  its  pro- 
portions must  be  altered  ;  and  I  have  no  hesitation  in  calling  that  unmeaning 
exaggeration  of  parts  in  St.  Peter's,  of  flutings,  volutes,  friezes,  etc.,  in  the 
proportions  of  a  smaller  building,  a  vulgar  blunder,  and  one  that  destroys  all 
the  majesty  that  the  building  ought  to  have  had — and  still  more  I  should  so 
call  all  imitations  and  adaptations  of  large  buildings  on  a  small  scale.  The 
true  test  of  right  proportion  is  that  it  shall  itself  inform  us  of  the  scale  of  the 
building,  and  be  such  that  even  in  a  drawing  it  shall  instantly  induce  the 
conception  of  the  actual  size,  or  size  intended.  I  know  not  what  Fuseli 
means  by  that  aphorism  of  his : — 

"  Disproportion  of  parts  is  the  element  of  hugeness — proportion,  of  gran- 
deur. All  Gothic  styles  of  Architecture  are  huge.  The  Greek  alone  is 
grand."  When  a  building  is  vast,  it  ought  to  look  so;  and  the  proportion  is 
right  which  exhibits  its  vastness.  Nature  loses  no  size  by  her  proportion ; 
her  ])uttrcssed  mountains  have  more  of  Gothic  than  of  Greek  in  them. 


sc.  I.  CH.  VI.] 


II.   OF  UNITY. 


59 


Now,  the  full  proof  of  the  influence  of  apparent  pro-  §  n.  The  vaiua 
portion,  I  must  reserve  for  illustration  by  diagram ;  propoiS°'m 
one  or  two  instances  however  may  be  given  at  present  curvature, 
for  the  better  understanding  of  its  nature. 

We  have  already  asserted  that  all  curves  are  more  beautiful  than 
nght  lines.  All  curves,  however,  are  not  equally  beautiful,  and 
Iheir  differences  of  beauty  depend  on  the  different  proportions 
borne  to  each  other  by  those  infinitely  small  right  lines  of  which 
they  may  be  conceived  as  composed. 

When  these  lines  are  equal  and  contain  equal  angles,  there  can 
be  no  connection  or  unity  of  sequence  in  them.  The  resulting 
turve,  the  circle,  is  therefore  the  least  beautiful  of  all  curves. 

When  the  lines  bear  to  each  other  some  certain  proportion ;  or 
ivhen,  the  lines  remaining  equal,  the  angles  vary ;  or  when  by  any 
means  whatsoever,  and  in  whatever  complicated  modes,  such  dif- 
ferences as  shall  imply  connection  are  established  between  the  in- 
dnitely  small  segments,  the  resulting  curves  become  beautiful. 
The  simplest  of  the  beautiful  curves  are  the  conic,  and  the  various 
spirals ;  but  it  is  as  rash  as  it  is  difficult  to  endeavor  to  trace  anj- 
ground  of  superiority  or  inferiority  among  the  infinite  numbers  of 
the  higher  curves.  I  believe  that  almost  all  are  beautiful  in  their 
own  nature,  and  that  their  comparative  beauty  depends  on  the 
constant  quantities  involved  in  their  equations.  Of  this  point  I 
shall  speak  hereafter  at  greater  length. 

The  universal  forces  of  nature,  and  the  individual  , 

'  §  12.  How  by 

energies  of  the  matter  submitted  to  them,  are  so  ap- 
pointed  and  balanced,  that  they  are  continually  bring- 
ing out  curves  of  this  kind  in  all  visible  forms,  and  that  circular 
lines  become  nearly  impossible  under  any  circumstances.  The 
gradual  acceleration,  for  instance,  of  velocity,  in  streams  that  de- 
scend from  hill-sides,  as  it  gradually  increases  their  power  of  ero- 
sion increases  in  the  same  gradual  degree  the  rate  of  curvature  in 
the  descent  of  the  slope,  until  at  a  certain  degree  of  steepness  this 
descent  meets,  and  is  concealed  by  the  right  line  of  the  detritus. 
The  junction  pf  this  right  line  with  the  plain  is  again  modified  by 
the  farther  bounding  of  the  larger  blocks,  and  by  the  successively 
diminishing  proportion  of  landslips  caused  by  erosion  at  the 
bottom,  so  that  the  whole  line  of  the  hill  is  one  of  curvature,  first, 
gradually  increasing  in  rapidity  to  the  maximum  steepness  of 


no 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTV. 


[part  III 


which  the  particular  rock  is  capable,  and  then  decreasing  in  a  de- 
creasing ratio,  until  it  arrives  at  the  plain  level.  This  type  of 
form,  modified  of  course  more  or  less  by  the  original  boldness  of 
the  mountain,  and  dependent  both  on  its  age,  its  constituent  rock, 
and  the  circumstances  of  its  exposure,  is  yet  in  its  general  for- 
mula applicable  to  all.  So  the  curves  of  all  things  in  motion,  and 
of  all  organic  forms,  most  rudely  and  simply  in  the  shell  spirals, 
and  in  their  most  complicated  development  in  the  muscular  lines 
of  the  higher  animals. 

This  influence  of  apparent  proportion,  a  proportion,  be  it  ob- 
served, which  has  no  reference  to  ultimate  ends,  but  which  is  itself, 
seemingly,  the  end  and  object  of  operation  in  many  of  the  forces 
of  nature,  is  therefore  at  the  root  of  all  our  delight  in  any  beauti- 
ful form  whatsoever.  For  no  form  can  be  beautiful  which  is  not 
composed  of  curves  whose  unity  is  secured  by  relations  of  this 
kind. 

§  13.  Apparent  Not  Only  however  in  curvature,  but  in  all  associa- 
rS^V""  tions  of  lines  whatsoever,  it  is  desirable  that  there 
should  be  reciprocal  relation,  and  the  eye  is  unhappy 
without  perception  of  it.  It  is  utterly  vain  to  endeavor  to  reduce 
this  proportion  to  finite  rules,  for  it  is  as  various  as  musical  mel- 
ody, and  the  laws  to  which  it  is  subject  are  of  the  same  general 
kind,  so  that  the  determination  of  right  or  wrong  proportion  is  as 
much  a  matter  of  feeling  and  experience  as  the  appreciation  of 
good  musical  composition ;  not  but  that  there  is  a  science  of  both, 
ann  principles  which  may  not  be  infringed,  but  that  within  these 
limits  the  liberty  of  invention  is  infinite,  and  the  degrees  of  excel- 
lence infinite  also,  whence  the  curious  error  of  Burke  in  imagining 
that  because  he  could  not  fix  upon  some  one  given  proportion  of 
lines  as  better  than  any  other,  therefore  proportion  had  no  value 
nor  influence  at  all,  which  is  the  same  as  to  conclude  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  melody  in  music,  because  there  are  melodies 
more  than  one. 

The  ar^jfument  of  Burke  on  this  subject  is  summed 

§  14  Error  ot  .  .  . 

Burke  in  this  up  in  the  followinfif  words : — "  Examine  the  head  of  a 

mutter.  . 

beautiful  horse,  find  what  proportion  that  bears  to  his 
body  and  to  his  limbs,  and  what  relations  these  have  to  each  other, 
and  when  you  have  settled  these  proportions,  as  a  standard  of 
beauty,  then  take  a  dog  or  cat,  or  any  other  animal,  and  exann'ne 


BC.  I.  CH.  VI.] 


II.   OF  UNITY. 


61 


how  far  the  same  proportions  between  their  heads  and  their  necks, 
between  tliose  and  the  body,  and  so  on,  are  found  to  hold ;  I  think 
we  may  safely  say,  that  they  differ  in  every  species,  yet  that  there 
are  individuals  found  in  a  great  many  species,  so  differing,  that 
have  a  very  striking  beauty.  Now  if  it  be  allowed  that  very  dif- 
ferent, and  even  contrary  forms  and  dispositions,  are  consistent 
with  beauty,  it  amounts,  I  believe,  to  a  concession,  that  no  certai 
measures  operating  from  a  natural  principle  are  necessary  to  pro- 
duce it,  at  least  so  far  as  the  brute  species  is  concerned." 

In  this  argument  there  are  three  very  palpable  fallacies  :  the 
first  is  the  rough  application  of  measurement  to  the  heads,  necks, 
and  limbs,  without  observing  the  subtile  differences  of  proportion 
and  position  of  parts  in  the  members  themselves,  for  it  svould  be 
strange  if  the  different  adjustment  of  the  ears  and  brow  in  the 
dog  and  horse,  did  not  require  a  harmonizing  difference  of  adjust- 
ment in  the  head  and  neck.  The  second  fallacy  is  that  above 
specified,  the  supposition  that  proportion  cannot  be  beautiful  if 
susceptible  of  variation,  whereas  the  whole  meaning  of  the  term 
has  reference  to  the  adjustment  and  functional  correspondence  of 
infinitely  variable  quantities.  And  the  third  error  is  the  oversight 
of  the  very  important  fact,  that,  although  "  different  and  even  con- 
trary forms  and  dispositions  are  consistent  with  beauty,"  they  are 
by  no  means  consistent  with  equal  degrees  of  beauty,  so  that, 
while  we  find  in  all  tlie  presence  of  such  proportion  and  harmony 
of  form,  as  gifts  them  with  positive  agreeableness  consistent  with 
the  station  and  dignity  of  each,  we  perceive,  also,  such  superior- 
ity of  proportion  in  some  (as  the  horse,  eagle,  lion,  and  man  for 
instance)  as  may  best  be  in  harmony  with  the  nobler  functions 
and  more  exalted  powers  of  the  animals. 

And  this  allowed  superiority  of  some  animal  forms  §  15.  Construc- 
to  others  is,  in  itself  argument  against  the  second  i^riSfllTe^nceTn 
error  above  named,  that  of  attributing  the  sensation  p^*^*^^' 
of  beauty  to  the  perception  of  expedient  or  constructive  propor- 
tion. For  everything  that  God  has  made  is  equally  well  con- 
structed with  reference  to  its  intended  functions.  But  all  things 
are  not  equally  beautiful.  The  methagerium  is  absolutely  as  well 
proportioned,  with  the  view  of  adaptation  of  parts  to  purposes,  as 
the  horse  or  the  swan ;  but  by  no  means  so  handsome  as  either. 
The  fact  is,  that  the  perception  of  expediency  of  proportion  can 


62 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III 


but  rarely  affect  our  estimates  of  beauty,  for  it  implies  a  knowl 
edge  which  we  very  rarely  and  imperfectly  possess,  and  the  want 
of  which  we  tacitly  acknowledge. 

Let  us  consider  that  instance  of  the  proportion  of  the  stalk  of  a 
plant  to  its  head,  given  by  Burke.  In  order  to  judge  of  the  expe- 
diency of  this  proportion,  we  must  know,  First,  the  scale  of  the 
■nlant  (for  the  smaller  the  scale,  the  longer  the  stem  may  safely 
be.)  Secondly,  the  toughness  of  the  materials  of  the  stem  and 
the  mode  of  their  mechanical  structure.  Thirdly,  the  specific 
gravity  of  the  head.  Fourthly,  the  position  of  the  head  which 
the  nature  of  fructification  requires.  Fifthly,  the  accidents  and 
influences  to  which  the  situation  for  which  the  plant  was  created 
is  exposti.  Until  we  know  all  this,  we  cannot  say  that  propor- 
tion or  disproportion  exists,  and  because  we  cannot  know  all  this, 
the  idea  of  expedient  proportion  enters  but  sHghtly  into  our  im- 
pression of  vegetable  beauty,  but  rather,  since  the  existence  of  the 
plant  proves  that  these  proportions  have  been  observed,  and  we 
know  that  nothing  but  our  own  ignorance  prevents  us  from  per- 
ceiving them,  we  take  the  proportion  on  credit,  and  are  delighted 
by  the  variety  of  results  which  the  Divine  intelligence  has  attain- 
ed in  the  various  involutions  of  these  quantities,  and  perhaps 
most  when,  to  outward  appearance,  such  proportions  have  been 
violated ;  more  by  the  slenderness  of  the  campanula  than  the  se- 
curity of  the  pine. 

5 16.  And  ani-  What  is  obscure  in  plants,  is  utterly  incomprehen- 
mais.  sihle  in  animals,  owing  to  the  greater  number  of 

means  employed  and  functions  performed.  To  judge  of  expedient 
proportion  in  them,  we  must  know  all  that  each  member  has  to 
do,  all  its  bones,  all  its  muscles,  and  the  amount  of  nervous  energy 
communicable  to  them  ;  and  jet,  forasmuch  as  we  have  more  ex- 
perience and  instinctive  sense  of  the  strength  of  muscles  than  of 
wood,  and  more  practical  knowledge  of  the  use  of  a  head  or  a  foot 
than  of  a  flower  or  a  stem,  we  are  much  more  likely  to  presume 
upon  our  judgment  respecting  proportions  here,  we  are  very  apt 
to  assert  that  the  plesiosaurus  and  cameleopard  have  necks  too 
long,  tliat  the  turnspit  has  legs  too  short,  and  the  elephant  a  body 
too  ponderous. 

But  the  painfulness  arising  from  the  idea  of  this  being  the  case 
is  occasioned  partly  by  our  sympathy  with  the  animal,  partly  by 


so.  I.  CH.  VI.J 


II.   OF  UNITY. 


68 


our  false  apprehension  of  incompletion  in  the  Divine  work,^  nor 
in  either  case  has  it  any  connection  with  impressions  of  that 
typical  beauty  of  which  we  are  at  present  speaking ;  though  some, 
perhaps,  with  that  vital  beauty  which  will  hereafter  come  undei 
discussion. 

I  wish  therefore  the  reader  to  hold,  respectino:  pro- 

^  §  17.  Summary. 

portion  generally,  First,  That  apparent  proportion,  or 
the  melodious  connection  of  quantities,  is  a  cause  of  unity,  and 
therefore  one  of  the  sources  of  all  beautiful  form.  Secondly,  That 
constructive  proportion  is  agreeable  to  the  mind  when  it  is  known 
or  supposed,  and  that  its  seeming  absence  is  painful  in  a  like  de« 
gree,  but  that  this  pleasure  and  pain  have  nothing  in  common  wdth 
those  dependent  on  ideas  of  beauty. 

Farther  illustrations  of  the  value  of  unity  I  shall  reserve  for  our 
detailed  examination,  as  the  bringing  them  forward  here  would 
interfere  with  the  general  idea  of  the  subject-matter  of  the  theo- 
retic faculty  which  I  wish  succinctly  to  convey. 

*  For  the  just  and  severe  reproof  of  which,  compare  Sir  Charles  Bell,  fon 
Ihe  hand,)  pp.  31,  32. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


OF  REPOSE,   OR  THE  TYPE   OF  DIVINE  PERMANENCE. 

f  1  Universal  There  is  probably  no  necessity  more  imperatively 
feeling  respect-  felt  by  the  artist,  no  test  more  unfailinsj  of  the  e^reat- 

ing  the  neces-  r»        •    •     i  i  i  r>  i 

sity  of  repose  in  ness  01  artistical  treatment,  than  that  oi  the  appear- 

art.  Its  sources.  /.  i       j  ii         •  t-,  -i 

ance  oi  repose,  and  yet  there  is  no  quality  whose  sem- 
blance in  mere  matter  is  more  difficult  to  define  or  illustrate.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  believe  that  our  instinctive  love  of  it,  as  well  as  the  cause 
to  which  I  attribute  that  love,  (although  here  also,  as  in  the  former 
cases,  I  contend  not  for  the  interpretation,  but  for  the  fact,)  will 
be  readily  allowed  by  the  reader.  As  opposed  to  passion,  change- 
fulness,  or  laborious  exertion,  repose  is  the  especial  and  separating 
characteristic  of  the  eternal  mind  and  power ;  it  is  the  "I  am  " 
of  the  Creator  opposed  to  the  "  I  become"  of  all  creatures ;  it  is 
the  sign  alike  of  the  supreme  knowledge  which  is  incapable  of 
surprise,  the  supreme  power  wnich  is  incapable  of  labor,  the  su, 
preme  volition  which  is  incapable  of  change ;  it  is  the  stillness  of 
the  beams  of  the  eternal  chambers  laid  upon  the  variable  waters 
of  ministering  creatures ;  and  as  we  saw  before  that  the  infinity 
wnich  was  a  type  of  the  Divine  nature  on  the  one  hand,  became 
yet  more  desirable  on  the  other  from  its  peculiar  address  to  our 
prison  hopes,  and  to  the  expectations  of  an  unsatisfied  and  unac- 
complished existence,  so  the  types  of  this  third  attribute  of  the 
Deity  might  seem  to  have  been  rendered  farther  attractive  to  mor- 
tarinstinct,  through  the  infliction  upon  the  fallen  creature  of  a 
curse  necessitating  a  labor  once  unnatural  and  still  most  painful, 
so  that  the  desire  of  rest  planted  in  the  heart  is  no  sensual  nor 
unworthy  one,  but  a  longing  for  renovation  and  for  escape  from  a 
state  whose  every  phase  is  mere  preparation  for  another  equally 
transitory,  to  one  in  which  permanence  shall  have  become  possible 
through  perfection.  Hence  the  great  call  of  Christ  to  men,  that 
call  on  which  St.  j^^ugustine  fixed  essential  expression  of  ChristiaD 


BC.  I   CH.  VII.] 


III.  OF  REPOSE. 


60 


hope,  is  accompanied  by  the  promise  of  rest  ;^  and  the  death  be- 
quest of  Christ  to  men  is  peace. 

Repose,  as  it  is  expressed  in  material  things,  is  Repose  how 
either  a  simple  appearance  of  permanence  and  quiet-  expressed  in 
ness,  as  in  the  massy  forms  of  a  mountain  or  rock, 
accompanied  by  the  lulling  effect  of  all  mighty  sight  and  sound, 
which  all  feel  and  none  define,  (it  would  be  less  sacred  if  more 
explicable,)  evdovaiv  d\)(}Fix)i^  yoQvqai'  re  xal  qiaonyyeg^  or  else 
it  is  repose  proper,  the  rest  of  things  in  which  there  is  vitality 
or  capability  of  motion  actual  or  imagined ;  and  with  respect  to 
these  the  expression  of  repose  is  greater  in  proportion  to  the 
amount  and  sublimity  of  the  action  which  is  not  taking  place,  as 
well  as  to  the  intensity  of  the  negation  of  it.  Thus  we  speak  not 
of  repose  in  a  stone,  because  the  motion  of  a  stone  has  nothing  in 
it  of  energy  nor  vitality,  neither  its  repose  of  stability.  But  having 
once  seen  a  great  rock  come  down  a  mountain  side,  we  have  a  no- 
ble sensation  of  its  rest,  now  bedded  immovably  among  the  under 
fern,  because  the  power  and  fearfulness  of  its  motion  were  great, 
and  its  stability  and  negation  of  motion  are  now  great  in  propor- 
tion. Hence  the  imagination,  which  delights  in  nothing  more  than 
the  enhancing  of  the  characters  of  repose,  effects  this  usually  by 
either  attributing  to  things  visibly  energetic  an  ideal  stability,  or 
to  things  visibly  stable  an  ideal  activity  or  vitality.  Hence  Words- 
v/orth,  of  the  cloud,  which  in  itself  having  too  much  of  changeful- 
ness  for  his  purpose,  is  spoken  of  as  one  "  that  heareth  not  the 
loud  winds  when  they  call,  and  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at 
all."  And  again  of  children,  which,  that  it  may  remove  from 
them  the  child  restlessness,  the  imagination  conceives  as  rooted 
flowers  "  Beneath  an  old  gray  oak,  as  violets,  lie."  On  the  other 
hand,  the  scattered  rocks,  which  have  not,  as  such,  vitality  enough 
for  rest,  are  gifted  with  it  by  the  living  image  :  they  lie  couched 
around  us  like  a  flock  of  sheep." 

Thus,  as  we  saw  that  unity  demanded  for  its  ex-  §  3.  The  neces- 
pression  what  at  first  might  have  seemed  its  contrary  of  ^an°  implied 
(variety)  so  repose  demands  for  its  expression  the  im-  ®*^®^sy« 
plied  capability  of  its  opposite,  energy,  and  this  even  in  its  lower 
manifestations,  in  rocks  and  stones  and  trees.  By  comparing  the 
modes  in  which  the  mind  is  disposed  to  regard  the  boughs  of  a 
*  Matt.  xi.  28. 


66 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  lit, 


fair  and  vigorous  tree,  motionless  in  the  summer  air,  with  the  effect 
produced  by  one  of  these  same  boughs  hewn  square  and  used  for 
threshold  or  lintel,  the  reader  will  at  once  perceive  the  connection 
of  vitality  with  repose,  and  the  part  they  both  bear  in  beauty. 

But  that  which  in  lifeless  thincrs  ennobles  them  by 

§4.  Mental  re-  .  .  -,  ,      ,  .   ,  , 

pose,  how  no-  seemmg  to  mdicate  life,  ennobles  higher  creatures  by 
indicating  the  exaltation  of  their  earthly  vitality  into  a 
Divine  vitality  ;  and  raising  the  life  of  sense  into  the  life  of  faith — 
faith,  whether  we  receive  it  in  the  sense  of  adherence  to  resolu- 
tion, obedience  to  law,  regard  fulness  of  promise,  in  which  from 
all  time  it  has  been  the  test  as  the  shield  of  the  true  being  and 
Hfe  of  man,  or  in  the  still  higher  sense  of  trustfulness  in  the  pres- 
ence, kindness,  and  word  of  God ;  in  which  form  it  has  been  ex- 
hibited under  the  Christian  dispensation.  For  whether  in  one  or 
other  form,  whether  the  faithfulness  of  men  whose  path  is  chosen 
and  portion  fixed,  in  the  folio v/ing  and  receiving  of  that  path  and 
portion,  as  in  the  Thermopylae  camp  ;  or  the  happier  faithfulness 
of  children  in  the  good  giving  of  their  Father,  and  of  subjects 
in  the  conduct  of  their  king,  as  in  the  "  Stand  still  and  see  the 
salvation  of  God''  of  the  Red  Sea  shore,  there  is  rest  and  peace- 
fulness,  the  "  standing  still"  in  both,  the  quietness  of  action  deter- 
mined, of  spirit  unalarmed,  of  expectation  unimpatient :  beau- 
tiful, even  when  based  only  as  of  old,  on  the  self-command  and 
self-possession,  the  persistent  dignity  or  the  uncalculating  love  of 
the  creature,^'  but  more  beautiful  yet  when  the  rest  is  one  of  hu- 
mility instead  of  pride,  and  the  trust  no  more  in  the  resolution  we 
have  taken,  but  in  the  hand  we  hold. 

*  "  The  universal  instinct  of  repose, 

The  longing  for  confirmed  tranquillity 
Inward  and  outward,  humble,  yet  sublime. 
The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one. 
Earth  quiet  and  unchanged  ;  the  human  soul 
Consistent  in  self  rule  ;  and  heaven  revealed 
To  meditation,  in  that  quietness." 

Wordsworth.    Excursion,  Book  iii 

But  compare  carefully  (for  this  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  one  diseased  in 
thought  and  erring  in  seeking)  the  opening  of  the  ninth  book ;  and  observe 
the  dinference  btitween  the  mildew  of  inaction, — the  slumber  of  Death  ;  and 
the  Patience  of  the  Saints— the  Rest  of  the  Sabbath  Eternal.    (Rev.  xiv.  13.) 

Compare  alsc^  Chap.  I.  §  6. 


sc.  I.  CH.  VII.J 


III.   OF  REPOSF 


67 


Hence  I  think  that  there  is  no  desire  more  intense     ^  , 

§  5.    Its  Tim- 
or more  exalted  than  that  ^\hich  exists  in  all  rightly  versai  value  as 

disciplined  minds  for  the  evidences  of  repose  in  ex- 
ternal signs,  and  what  I  cautiously  said  respecting  infinity,  I  say 
fearlessly  respecting  repose,  that  no  work  of  art  can  be  great 
without  it,  and  that  all  art  is  great  in  proportion  to  the  appear- 
ance of  it.  It  is  the  most  unfailing  test  of  beauty,  whether  of 
matter  or  of  motion,  nothing  can  be  ignoble  that  possesses  it, 
nothing  right  that  has  it  not,  and  in  strict  proportion  to  its  ap- 
pearance in  the  work  is  the  majesty  of  mind  to  be  inferred  in 
the  artificer.  Witliout  regard  to  other  qualities,  we  may  look 
to  this  for  our  evidence,  and  by  the  search  for  this  alone  we 
may  be  led  to  the  rejection  of  all  that  is  base,  and  the  accepting 
of  all  that  is  good  and  great,  for  the  paths  of  wisdom  are  all 
peace.  We  shall  see  by  this  light  three  colossal  images  standing 
up  side  by  side,  looming  in  their  great  rest  of  spirituality  above 
the  whole  world  horizon,  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Dante; 
and  then,  separated  from  their  great  religious  thrones  only  by  less 
fulness  and  earnestness  of  Faith,  Homer,  and  Shakspeare ;  and 
from  these  we  may  go  down  step  by  step  among  the  mighty  men 
of  every  age,  securely  and  certainly  observant  of  diminished  lustre 
in  every  appearance  of  restlessness  and  effort,  until  the  last  trace 
of  true  inspiration  vanishes  in  the  tottering  affectations  or  the 
tortured  insanities  of  modern  times.  There  is  no  art,  no  pursuit, 
whatsoever,  but  its  results  may  be  classed  by  this  test  alone ; 
everything  of  evil  is  betrayed  and  winnowed  away  by  it,  glitter 
and  confusion  and  glare  of  color,  inconsistency  or  absence  of 
thought,  forced  expression,  evil  choice  of  subject,  over  accumula- 
tion of  materials,  whether  in  painting  or  literature,  the  shallow 
and  unreflecting  nothingness  of  the  English  schools  of  art,  the 
strained  and  diso^ustino:  horrors  of  the  French,  the  distorted  ffever- 
ishness  of  the  German : — pretence,  over  decoration,  over  division 
of  parts  in  architecture,  and  again  in  music,  in  acting,  in  dancing. 
In  whatsoever  art,  great  or  mean,  there  are  yet  degrees  of  great- 
ness or  meanness  entirelv  dependent  on  this  single  quality  of 
repose. 

Particular  instances  are  at  present  both  needless  ,  ^  ,  , 

§  6.  Tnstance.1 

and  cannot  but  be  inadequate ;  needless,  because  I     ^^e  r-aocoou 

8/11(1  Xll('ij6llS 

buppose  that  every  reader,  however  limited  his  expe- 


68 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  iil 


rience  of  art,  can  supply  many  for  himself,  and  inadequate,  because 
no  number  of  them  could  illustrate  the  full  extent  of  the  influence 
of  the  expression  I  believe,  however,  that  by  comparing  the 
disgusting  convulsions  of  the  Laocoon,  with  the  Elgin  Theseus, 
we  may  obtain  a  general  idea  of  the  effect  of  the  influence,  as 
shown  by  its  absence  in  one,  and  presence  in  the  other,  of  two 
works  which,  as  far  as  artistical  merit  is  concerned,  are  in  some 
measure  parellel,  not  that  I  believe,  even  in  this  respect,  the  Lao- 
coon justifiably  comparable  with  the  Theseus.  I  suppose  that  no 
group  has  exercised  so  pernicious  ^n  influence  on  art  as  this,  a 
subject  ill  chosen,  meanly  conceived  and  unnaturally  treated,  re- 
commended to  imitation  by  subtleties  of  execution  and  accumula- 
tion of  technical  knowledge.'* 

*  I  would  also  have  the  reader  compare  with  the  meagre  lines  and  con- 
temptible tortures  of  the  Laocoon.  the  awfulness  and  quietness  of  M.  Angelo's 
treatment  of  a  subject  in  most  respects  similar,  (the  plague  of  the  Fiery  Ser- 
pents,) but  of  which  the  choice  W4is  justified  both  by  the  place  which  the 
event  holds  in  the  typical  system  he  had  to  arrange,  and  by  the  grandeur  of 
the  plague  itself,  in  its  multitudinous  grasp,  and  its  mystical  salvation  ;  sources 
of  sublimity  entirely  wanting  to  the  slaughter  of  the  Dardan  priest.  It  is 
good  to  see  how  his  gigantic  intellect  reaches  after  repose,  and  truthfully  finds 
it,  in  the  falling  hand  of  the  near  figure,  and  in  the  deathful  decline  of  that 
whose  hands  are  held  up  even  in  their  venomed  coldness  to  the  cross ;  and 
though  irrelevant  to  our  present  purpose,  it  is  well  also  to  note  how  the  gran- 
deur of  this  treatment  results,  not  merely  from  choice,  but  from  a  greater 
knowledge  and  more  faithful  rendering  of  truth.  For  whatever  knowledge 
of  the  human  frame  there  may  be  in  the  Laocoon,  there  is  certainly  none  of 
the  habits  of  serpents.  The  fixing  of  the  snake's  head  in  the  side  of  the  prin- 
cipal figure  is  as  false  to  nature,  as  it  is  poor  in  composition  of  line.  A  large 
serpent  never  wants  to  bite,  it  wants  to  hold,  it  seizes  therefore  always  where 
it  can  hold  best,  by  the  extremities,  or  throat,  it  seizes  once  and  forever,  and 
that  before  it  coils,  following  up  the  seizure  with  the  twist  of  its  body  round 
the  victim,  as  invisibly  swift  as  the  twist  of  a  whip  lash  round  any  hard  ob- 
ject it  may  strike,  and  then  it  holds  fast,  never  moving  tlie  jaws  or  the  body  ; 
if  its  prey  has  any  power  of  struggUng  left,  it  throws  round  another  coil, 
without  quitting  the  hold  with  the  jaws  ;  if  Laocoon  had  had  to  do  with  real 
serpents,  instead  of  pieces  of  tape  with  heads  to  them,  he  would  have  been 
held  still,  and  not  allowed  to  throw  his  arms  or  legs  about.  It  is  most  instruc- 
tive to  observe  the  accuracy  of  Michael  Angelo  in  the  rendering  of  these  cir- 
cumstances ;  the  binding  of  the  arms  to  the  body,  and  the  knotting  of  the 
whole  mass  of  agony  together,  until  we  hear  the  crashing  of  the  bones  be- 
neath the  grisly  sliding  of  the  engine  folds.  Note  also  the  expression  in  all 
the  figures  of  another  circumstance,  the  torpor  and  cold  numbness  of  the 
limbs  induced  by  the  serpent  venom,  which,  though  justifiably  overlooked  hv 


8C.  I.  CH.  VII.] 


IIIc   OF  REPOSE. 


6& 


In  Christian  art,  it  would  be  well  to  compare  the  ^  ^ 
feeling  of  the  finer  among  the  altar  tombs  of  the  mid-  ^^'^^  tombs, 
die  ages,  with  any  monumental  works  after  Michael  x\ngelo,  per- 
haps more  especially  with  works  of  Roubilliac  or  Canova. 

In  the  Cathedral  of  Lucca,  near  the  entrance  door  of  the  north 
transept,  there  is  a  monument  of  Jacopo  della  Quercia's  to  Ilaria 
di  Caretto,  the  wife  of  Paolo  Guinioi.  I  name  it  not  as  more 
beautiful  or  perfect  than  other  examples  of  the  same  period,  but 
as  furnishing  an  instance  of  the  exact  and  right  mean  between  the 
rigidity  and  rudeness  of  the  earlier  monumental  effigies,  and  the 
morbid  imitation  of  life,  sleep,  or  death,  of  which  the  fashion  has 
taken  place  in  modern  times. ^  She  is  lying  on  a  simple  couch, 
with  a  hound  at  her  feet,  not  on  the  side,  but  with  the  head  laid 

the  sculptor  of  the  Laocoon,  as  well  as  by  Virgil — in  consideration  of  the  fa 
pidity  of  the  death  by  crushing,  adds  infinitely  to  the  power  of  the  Floren- 
tine's conception,  and  would  have  been  better  hinted  by  Virgil,  than  that  sick- 
ening distribution  of  venom  on  the  garlands.  In  fact,  Virgil  has  missed  both 
of  truth  and  impressiveness  every  way — the  "  morsu  depascitur"  is  unnatural 
butchery — the  "  perfusus  veneno"  gratuitous  foulness — the  "  clamores  horren- 
dos,"  impossible  degradation ;  compare  carefully  the  remarks  on  this  statue  in 
Sir  Charles  Bell's  Essay  on  Expression,  (third  edition,  p.  192,)  where  he  has 
most  wisely  and  uncontrovertibly  deprived  the  statue  of  all  claim  to  expres- 
sion of  energy  and  fortitude  of  mind,  and  shown  its  common  and  coarse  in- 
tent of  mere  bodily  exertion  and  agony,  while  he  has  confirmed  Payne  Knight's 
just  condemnation  of  the  passage  in  Virgil. 

If  the  reader  wishes  to  see  the  opposite  or  imaginative  view  of  the  subject, 
let  him  compare  Winkelmann  ;  and  Schiller,  Letters  on  ^Esthetic  Culture. 

*  Whenever,  in  monumental  work,  the  sculptor  reaches  a  deceptive  appear- 
ance of  life  or  death,  or  of  concomitant  details,  he  has  gone  too  far.  The 
statue  should  be  felt  for  such,  not  look  like  a  dead  or  sleeping  body  ;  it  should 
not  convey  the  impression  of  a  corpse,  nor  of  sick  and  outwearied  flesh,  but  it 
should  be  the  marble  image  of  death  or  weariness.  So  the  concomitants  should 
be  distinctly  marble,  severe  and  monumental  in  their  lines,  not  shroud,  not 
bedclothes,  not  actual  armor  nor  brocade,  not  a  real  soft  pillow,  not  a  down- 
right hard  stuffed  mattress,  but  the  mere  type  and  suggestion  of  these :  a  cer- 
tain rudeness  and  incompletion  of  finish  is  very  noble  in  all.  Not  that  they 
are  to  be  unnatural,  such  Unes  as  are  given  should  be  pure  and  true,  and  clear 
of  the  hardness  and  mannered  rigidit}^  of  the  strictly  Gothic  types,  but  lines  so 
few  and  grand  as  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  only,  and  always  to  stop  short 
of  realization.  There  is  a  monument  put  up  lately  by  a  modern  Italian 
sculptor  in  one  of  the  side  chapels  of  Santa  Croce,  the  face  fine  and  the  exe- 
cution dexterous.  But  it  looks  as  if  the  person  had  been  restless  all  nignt, 
and  the  artist  admitted  to  a  faithful  study  of  the  disturbed  bedclothes  in  the 
morning. 


70 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[P\l?r  III, 


straight  and  simply  on  the  hard  pillow,  in  which,  let  it  be  ob- 
served, there  is  no  effort  at  deceptive  imitation  of  pressure.  It  is 
understood  as  a  pillow,  but  not  mistaken  for  one.  The  hair  is 
bound  in  a  flat  bmid  over  the  fair  brow,  the  sweet  and  arched 
eyes  are  closed,  the  tenderness  of  the  loving  lips  is  set  and  quiet, 
fchere  is  that  about  them  which  forbids  breath,  something  which 
is  not  death  nor  sleep,  but  the  pure  image  of  both.  The  hands 
are  not  lifted  in  prayer,  neither  folded,  but  the  arms  are  laid  at 
length  upon  the  body,  and  the  hands  cross  as  they  fall.  The  feet 
are  hidden  by  the  drapery,  and  the  forms  of  the  limbs  concealed, 
but  not  their  tenderness. 

If  any  of  us,  after  staying  for  a  time  beside  this  tomb,  could 
see  through  his  tears,  one  of  the  vain  and  unkind  encumbrances 
of  the  grave,  which,  in  these  hollow  and  heartless  days,  feigned 
sorrow  builds  to  foolish  pride,  he  would,  I  believe,  receive  such  a 
lesson  of  love  as  no  coldness  could  refuse,  no  fatuity  forget,  and 
no  insolence  disobey. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


OF  SYMMETRY,   OR  THE  TYPE   OF  DIVINE  JUSTICE. 

We  shall  not  be  long  detained  by  the  consideration  §  i.  sjinBietrj' 
of  this,  the  fourth  constituent  of  beauty,  as  its  nature  ^^^^^i  fn  organ- 
is  universally  felt  and  understood.  In  all  perfectly  mature, 
beautiful  objects,  there  is  found  the  opposition  of  one  part  to 
another  and  a  reciprocal  balance  obtained  ;  in  animals  the  bal- 
ance being  commonly  between  opposite  sides,  (note  the  disagree- 
ablenes  occasioned  by  the  exception  in  flat  fish,  having  the  eyes 
on  one  side  of  the  head,)  but  in  vegetables  the  opposition  is 
less  distinct,  as  in  the  boughs  on  opposite  sides  of  trees,  and  the 
leaves  and  sprays  on  each  side  of  the  boughs,  and  in  dead  matter 
less  perfect  still,  often  amounting  only  to  a  certain  tendency  to- 
wards a  balance,  as  in  the  opposite  sides  of  valleys  and  alternate 
windings  of  streams.  In  things  in  which  perfect  symmetry  is  from 
their  nature  impossible  or  improper,  a  balance  must  be  at  least 
in  some  measure  expressed  before  they  can  be  beheld  with  pleas- 
ure. Hence  the  necessity  of  w^iat  artists  require  as  §  2.  How  neces- 
opposing  lines  or  masses  in  composition,  the  propri- 
ety  of  which,  as  well  as  their  value,  depends  chiefly  on  their  inar- 
tificial and  natural  invention.  Absolute  equality  is  not  required, 
still  less  absolute  similarity.  A  mass  of  subdued  color  may  be 
balanced  by  a  point  of  a  powerful  one,  and  a  long  and  latent  line 
overpowered  by  a  short  and  conspicuous  one.  The  only  error 
against  which  it  is  necessary  to  guard  the  reader  with  respect  to 
symmetry,  is  the  confounding  it  with  proportion,  though  it  seems 
strange  that  the  two  terms  could  ever  have  been  used  as  synon- 
ymous. Symmetry  is  the  opposition  of  equal  quantities  to  each 
other.  Proportion  the  connection  of  unequal  quantities  with  each 
other.  The  property  of  a  tree  in  sending  out  equal  boughs  on 
opposite  sides  is  symmetrical    Its  sending  out  shorter  and  smaller 


72 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  111, 


towards  the  top,  proportional.  In  the  human  face  its  balance  of 
opposite  sides  is  symmetr};^,  its  division  upwards,  proportion. 
§  3  To  what  Whether  the  agreeableness  of  symmetry  be  in  any 
its  agreeable-  way  referable  to  its  expression  of  the  Aristotelian 
able.  Various  lootr^Q,  that  is  to  Say  of  abstract  justice,  I  leave  the 
instances.  reader  to  determine  ;  I  only  assert  respecting  it,  that 
it  is  necessary  to  the  dignity  of  every  form,  and  that  by  the  removal 
of  it  we  shall  render  the  other  elements  of  beauty  comparatively 
ineffectual:  though  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  so  be  observed  that  it 
is  rather  a  mode  of  arrangement  of  qualities  than  a  quality  itself ; 
and  hence  symmetry  has  little  power  over  the  mind,  unless  all 
the  other  constituents  of  beauty  be  found  together  with  it.  A 
form  may  be  symmetrical  and  ugly,  as  many  Elizabethan  orna- 
ments, and  yet  not  so  ugly  as  it  had  been  if  unsymmetrical,  but 
bettered  always  by  increasing  degrees  of  symmetry  ;  as  in  star  fig- 
ures, wherein  there  is  a  circular  symmetry  of  many  like  members, 
whence  their  frequent  use  for  the  plan  and  ground  of  ornamental 
designs ;  so  also  it  is  observable  that  foliage  in  which  the  leaves 
are  concentrically  grouped,  as  in  the  chestnuts,  and  many  shrubs 
— rhododendrons  for  instance — (whence  the  perfect  beauty  of  the 
Alpine  rose) — is  far  nobler  in  its  effect  than  any  other,  so  that 
the  sweet  chestnut  of  all  trees  most  fondly  and  frequently  oc- 
curs in  the  landscape  of  Tintoret  and  Titian,  beside  which  all 
other  landscape  grandeur  vanishes :  and  even  in  the  meanest 
things  the  rule  holds,  as  in  the  kaleidoscope,  wherein  agreeable- 
ness is  given  to  forms  altogether  accidental  merely  by  their  repe- 
tition and  reciprocal  opposition ;  which  orderly  balance  and 
arrangement  are  essential  to  the  perfect  operation  of  the  more 
earnest  and  solemn  qualities  of  the  beautiful,  as  being  heavenly  in 
their  nature,  and  contrary  to  the  violence  and  disorganization  of 
sin,  so  that  the  seeking  of  them  and  submission  to  them  is  always 
marked  in  minds  that  have  been  subjected  to  high  moral  disci- 
pline, constant  in  all  the  great  religious  painters,  to  the  degree  of 
being  an  offence  and  a  scorn  to  men  of  less  tuned  and  tranquil 
§  4.  Especially  feeling.  Equal  ranks  of  saints  are  placed  on  each 
in  religious  art.  gj^^  q£  ^^iq  picture,  if  there  be  a  kneeling  figure  on 
one  side,  there  is  a  corresponding  one  on  the  other,  the  attendant 
angels  beneath  and  above  are  arranged  in  like  order.  The  Raf- 
faelle  at  Blenheim,  the  Madonna  di  St.  Sisto,  the  St.  Cicilia,  and 


fiC.  I.  CH.  VIII.] 


IV.   OF  SYMMETRY. 


73 


all  the  works  of  Perugino,  Francia,  and  John  Bellini  present  some 
such  form,  and  the  balance  at  least  is  preserved  even  in  pictures 
of  action  necessitating  variety  of  grouping,  as  always  by  Giotto; 
and  by  Ghirlandajo  in  the  introduction  of  his  chorus-like  side  fig- 
ures, and  by  Tintoret  most  eminently  in  his  noblest  work,  the 
Crucifixion,  where  not  only  the  grouping  but  the  arrangement  of 
light  is  absolutely  symmetrical.  Where  there  is  no  symmetry,  the 
effects  of  passion  and  violence  are  increased,  and  many  very  sub- 
lime pictures  derive  their  sublimity  from  the  want  of  it,  but  they 
lose  proportionally  in  the  diviner  quality  of  beauty.  In  land- 
scape the  same  sense  of  symmetry  is  preserved,  as  we  shall  pres- 
ently see,  even  to  artificialness,  by  the  greatest  men,  and  it  is 
one  of  the  principal  sources  of  deficient  feeling  in  the  landscapes 
of  the  present  day,  that  the  symmetry  of  nature  is  sacrificed  to 
irregular  picturesqueness.    Of  this,  however,  hereafter, 

VOL.  II  4 


CHAPTER  IX 


OF  PURITY,  OR  THE  TYPE  OF  DIVINE  ENERGY. 

il.  The  influ-  It  may  at  first  appear  strange  that  I  have  not  in 
mcrl/^J'^i^  "^y  enumeration  of  the  types  of  Divine  attributes. 

included  that  which  is  certainly  the  most  visible  and 
evident  of  all,  as  well  as  the  most  distinctly  expressed  in  Scrip- 
ture ;  God  is  light,  and  in  Him  is  no  darkness  at  all.  But  I  could 
not  logically  class  the  presence  of  an  actual  substance  or  motion 
with  mere  conditions  and  modes  of  being,  neither  could  I  logi- 
cally separate  from  any  of  ihese,  that  which  is  e\idently  necessary 
to  the  perception  of  all.  And  it  is  also  to  be  observed,  that 
though  the  love  of  light  is  more  instinctive  in  the  human  heart 
than  any  other  of  the  desires  connected  with  beauty,  we  can 
hardly  separate  its  agreeableness  in  its  own  nature  from  the  sense 
of  its  necessity  and  value  for  the  purposes  of  life,  neither  the  ab- 
stract painfulness  of  darkness  from  the  sense  of  danger  and  in- 
capacity connected  with  it ;  and  note  also  that  it  is  not  all  light, 
but  light  possessing  the  universal  qualities  of  beauty,  diffused  or 
infinite  rather  than  in  points,  tranquil,  not  startling  and  variable, 
pure,  not  sullied  or  oppressed,  which  is  indeed  pleasant  and  per- 
fectly typical  of  the  Divine  nature. 
„  Observe,  however,  that  there  is  one  quality,  the 

§  2.  The  idea  ,  \  ,        ^  .  . 

of  imrity  con-  idea  of  w^liich  had  been  iust  introduced  in  connection 

nected  with  it.       •  i    t  i         i  •  i       •  i      i  i         •  i 

With  light,  which  might  have  escaped  us  m  the  con- 
sideration of  mere  matter,  namely  purity,  and  yet  I  think  that  the 
original  notion  of  this  quality  is  altogether  material,  and  has  only 
been  attributed  to  color  when  such  color  is  suggestive  of  the  con- 
dition of  matter  from  which  we  originally  received  the  idea.  For 
I  see  not  in  the  abstract  how  one  color  should  be  considered 
purer  than  another,  except  as  more  or  less  compounded,  whereas 
there  is  certainly  a  sense  of  purity  or  impurity  in  the  most  com- 


6C.  I.  CH.  IX.] 


V.   OF  PURITY. 


75 


pound  and  neutral  colors,  as  well  as  in  the  simplest,  a  quality  dif« 
ficult  to  define,  and  Avhicli  the  read  3r  will  probably  be  surprised 
by  my  calhng  the  type  of  energy,  with  which  it  has  certainly  lit- 
tle traceable  connection  in  the  mind. 

I  believe  however  if  we  carefully  analyze  the  nature  §  3.  Ori^naUj 
of  our  ideas  of  impurity  in  general,  we  shall  find  them  condftfonrof 
refer  especially  to  conditions  of  matter  in  which  its 
various  elements  are  placed  in  a  relation  incapable  of  healthy  or 
proper  operation ;  and  most  distinctly  to  conditions  in  which  the 
negation  of  vital  or  energetic  action  is  most  evident,  as  in  corrup- 
tion and  decay  of  all  kinds,  wherein  particles  which  once,  by  their 
operation  on  each  other,  produced  a  living  and  energetic  whole, 
are  reduced  to  a  condition  of  perfect  passiveness,  in  which  they 
are  seized  upon  and  appropriated,  one  by  one,  piecemeal,  b}^ 
whatever  has  need  of  them,  without  any  power  of  resistance  or 
energy  of  their  own.  And  thus  there  is  a  peculiar  painfulness 
attached  to  any  associations  of  inorganic  with  organic  matter,  such 
as  appear  to  involve  the  inactivity  and  feebleness  of  the  latter,  so 
that  things  which  are  not  felt  to  be  foul  in  their  own  nature,  yet 
become  so  in  association  with  things  of  greater  inherent  energy ; 
as  dust  or  earth,  which  in  a  mass  excites  no  painful  sensation, 
excites  a  most  disao^reeable  one  when  strewino^  or  stainino-  an 
animal's  skin,  because  it  implies  a  decline  and  deadening  of  the 
vital  and  healthy  power  of  the  skin.  But  all  reason-  §  4.  Associated 
ing  about  this  impression  is  rendered  difficult,  by  the  IhTpo^verof tho 
host  of  associated  ideas  connected  with  it ;  for  the  flaeirceofciear- 
ocular  sense  of  impurity  connected  with  corruption 
is  infinitely  enhanced  by  the  offending  of  other  senses  and  by 
the  grief  and  horror  of  it  in  its  own  nature,  as  the  special  punish- 
ment and  evidence  of  sin,  and  on  the  other  hand,  the  ocular  de- 
light in  purity  is  mingled,  as  I  before  observed,  with  the  love  of 
the  mere  element  of  light,  as  a  type  of  wisdom  and  of  truth  ; 
whence  it  seems  to  me  that  we  admire  the  transparency  of  bodies, 
though  probably  it  is  still  rather  owing  to  our  sense  of  more  per- 
fect order  and  arrangement  of  particles,  and  not  to  our  love  of 
light,  that  we  look  upon  a  piece  of  rock  crystal  as  purer  than  a 
piece  of  marble,  and  on  the  marble  as  purer  than  a  piece  of  chalk. 
And  let  it  be  observed  also  that  the  most  lovely  objects  in  nature 
are  only  partially  transparent.    I  suppose  the  utmost  possible 


16 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


f  6.  Perfect  sense  of  beauty  is  conveyed  by  a  feebly  translucent^ 
foceJ'In '^wh^'  smooth,  but  not  lustrous  surface  of  white,  and  pale 
couijistiu^.  warm  red,  subdued  by  the  most  pure  and  delicate 
grays,  as  in  the  finer  portions  of  the  human  frame ;  in  wreaths  of 
snow,  and  in  white  plumage  under  rose  light, so  Viola  of  Olivia 
in  Twelfth  Night,  and  Homer  of  Atrides  wounded.f  And  I  think 
that  transparency  and  lustre,  'both  beautiful  in  themselves,  are 
incompatible  with  the  highest  beauty  because  they  destroy  form, 
on  the  full  perception  of  which  more  of  the  divinely  character  ol 
the  object  depends  than  upon  its  color.  Hence,  in  the  beauty  of 
snow  and  of  flesh,  so  much  translucency  is  allowed  as  is  consistent 
with  the  full  explanation  of  the  forms,  while  we  are  suffered  to 
receive  more  intense  impressions  of  light  and  transparency  from 
other  objects  which,  nevertheless,  owing  to  their  necessarily  un- 
perceived  form,  are  not  perfectly  nor  affectingly  beautiful.  A 
fair  forehead  outsliines  its  diamond  diadem.  T'he  sparkle  of  the 
cascade  withdraws  not  our  eyes  from  the  snowy  summits  in  their 
evening  silence. 

*  Th  reader  will  observe  that  I  am  speaking  at  present  of  mere  material 
qualities.  If  he  would  obtain  perfect  ideas  respecting  loveliness  of  luminous 
surface,  let  him  closely  observe  a  swan  with  its  wings  expanded  in  full  light 
five  minutes  before  sunset.  The  human  cheek  or  the  rose  leaf  are  perhaps 
hardly  so  pure,  and  the  forms  of  snow,  though  individually  as  beautiful,  are 
less  exquisitely  combined. 

•j*       J'  0T£  Tis  r'  i\e(pavTa  yvvfi  (fioivtKi  n^h^rf 
M>70i/is. 

So  Spenser  of  Shamefacedness,  an  exquisite  piece  of  glowing  color — and 
sweetly  of  Belphoebe — (so  the  roses  and  lilies  of  all  poets.)  Compare  the 
making  of  the  image  of  Florimell. 

"  The  substance  whereof  she  the  body  made 

Was  purest  snow,  in  massy  mould  congealed, 

Which  she  had  gathered  in  a  shady  glade 

Of  the  Riphoean  hills. 

The  same  she  tempered  with  fine  mercury, 

And  mingled  them  with  perfect  vermily." 
With  Una  he  perhaps  overdoes  the  white  a  little.    She  is  two  degrees  of  com- 
parison above  snow.    Compare  his  questioning  in  the  Hymn  to  Beauty,  about 
that  mixture  made  of  colors  fair ;  and  goodly  temperament,  of  pure  com- 
plexion. 

Hath  white  and  red  in  it  such  wondrous  power 
That  it  can  pierce  through  the  eyes  into  the  heart  1** 

Where  the  distinction  between  typical  and  vital  beauty  is  very  gloriously  car« 

lied  out. 


8C,  I.  CH.  IX.J 


V.   OF  PURITY. 


11 


It  may  seem  strange  to  many  readers  that  I  have  6.  Purity  only 
not  spoken  of  purity  in  that  sense  in  which  it  is  ^^f^Q^of^tiv- 
most  frequently  used,  as  a  type  of  sinlessness.  I  do  ^^ssness. 
not  deny  that  the  frequent  metaphorical  use  of  it  in  Scripture 
may  have  and  ought  to  have  much  influence  on  the  sympathies 
with  which  we  regard  it,  and  that  probably  the  immediate  agree - 
ableness  of  it  to  most  minds  arises  far  more  from  this  source  than 
from  that  to  which  I  have  chosen  to  attribute  it.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  if  it  be  indeed  in  the  signs  of  Divine  and  not  of  human 
attributes  that  beauty  consists,  I  see  not  how  the  idea  of  sin  can 
be  formed  with  respect  to  the  Deity,  for  it  is  an  idea  of  a  relation 
borne  by  us  to  Him,  and  not  in  any  w^ay  to  be  attached  to  his 
abstract  nature.  And  if  the  idea  of  sin  is  incapable  of  being 
formed  with  respect  to  Him,  so  also  is  its  negative,  for  we  cannot 
form  an  idea  of  negation,  where  we  cannot  form  an  idea  of  pres- 
ence. If  for  instance  one  could  conceive  of  taste  or  flavor  in  a 
proposition  of  Euclid,  so  also  might  we  of  insipidity,  but  if  not  of 
the  one,  then  not  of  the  other.  So  that,  in  speaking  of  the  good- 
ness of  God,  it  cannot  be  that  we  mean  anything  more  that  his 
Love,  Mercifulness,  and  Justice,  and  these  attributes  I  have  shown 
to  be  expressed  by  other  qualities  of  beauty,  and  I  cannot  trace 
any  rational  connection  between  them  and  the  idea  of  spotless- 
ness  in  matter.  Neither  can  I  trace  any  more  distinct  relation 
between  this  idea,  and  any  of  the  virtues  which  make  up  the 
righteousness  of  man,  except  perhaps  those  of  truth  and  openness, 
of  which  I  have  already  spoken  as  more  expressed  by  the  trans- 
parency than  the  mere  purity  of  matter.  So  that  I  conceive  the 
whole  use  of  the  terms  purity,  spotlessness,  etc.  in  moral  sub- 
jects, to  be  merely  metaphorical,  and  that  it  is  rather  that  we 
illustrate  these  virtues  by  the  desirableness  of  material  purity, 
than  that  we  desire  material  purity  because  it  is  illustrative  of 
these  virtues. 

I  repeat,  then,  that  the  only  idea  which  I  think  §  7.  Energy, 
can  be  legitimately  connected  with  purity  of  matter,  by^^pSty'^^f 
is  this  of  vital  and  energetic  connection  among  its 
particles,  and  that  the  idea  of  foulness  is  essentially  connected 
with  dissolution  and  death.  Thus  the  purity  of  the  rock,  con- 
trasted with  the  foulness  of  dust  or  mould,  is  expressed  by  the 
epithet  "living,"  very  singularly  given  in  the  rock,  in  almost  al] 


18 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III 


languages  ;  singularly  I  say,  because  life  is  almost  the  last  attri- 
bute one  would  ascribe  to  stone,  but  for  this  visible  energy  and 
connection  of  its  particles  :  and  so  of  water  as  opposed  to  stag- 
nancy. And  I  do  not  think  that,  however  pure  a  powder  or  dust 
may  be,  the  idea  of  beauty  is  ever  connected  with  it,  for  it  is  not 
the  mere  purity,  but  the  active  condition  of  the  substance  which 
is  desired,  so  that  as  soon  as  it  shoots  into  crystals,  or  gathers  into 
efflorescence,  a  sensation  of  active  or  real  purity  is  received  which 
was  not  felt  in  the  calcined  caput  mortuum. 

§  8.  And  of  again  in  color.    I  imagine  that  the  quality 

KxAoT.  which  we  term  purity  is  dependent  on  the  full 

energizing  of  the  rays  that  compose  it^  whereof  if  in  compound 
hues  any  are  overpowered  and  killed  by  the  rest,  so  as  to  be  of 
no  value  nor  operation,  foulness  is  the  consequence  ;  while  so 
long  as  all  act  together,  whether  side  by  side,  or  from  pigments 
seen  one  through  the  other,  so  that  all  the  coloring  matter  em- 
ployed comes  into  play  in  the  harmony  desired,  and  none  be 
quenched  nor  killed,  purity  results.  And  so  in  all  cases  I  sup- 
pose that  pureness  is  made  to  us  desirable,  because  expressive 
of  the  constant  presence  and  energizing  of  the  Deity  in  matter, 
through  which  all  things  live  and  move,  and  have  their  being, 
and  that  foulness  is  painful  as  the  accompaniment  of  disorder  and 
decay,  and  always  indicative  of  the  withdrawal  of  Divine  support. 
And  the  practical  analogies  of  life,  the  invariable  connection  of 
outward  foulness  with  mental  sloth  and  degradation,  as  well  as 
w^ith  bodily  lethargy  and  disease,  together  with  the  contrary  indi- 
cations of  freshness  and  purity  belonging  to  every  healthy  and 
active  organic  frame,  (singularly  seen  in  the  effort  of  the  young 
leaves  when  first  their  inward  energy  prevails  over  the  earth, 
pierces  its  corruption,  and  shakes  its  dust  away  from  their  own 
white  purity  of  life,)  all  these  circumstances  strengthen  the  instinct 
by  associations  countless  and  irresistible.  And  then,  finally,  with 
.   the  idea  of  purity  comes  that  of  spirituality,  for  the 

§  9.  Spirituali-  •  i    i  •    •      p  ...        .  -. 

ty,  how  so  ex-  essential  characteristic  oi  matter  is  its  mertia,  whence, 
pressed.  adding  to  it  purity  or  energy,  we  may  in  some 

measure  spiritualize  even  matter  itself.  Thus  in  the  descriptions 
of  the  Apocalypse  it  is  its  purity  that  fits  it  for  its  place  in  hea- 
ven ;  the  river  of  the  ^vater  of  life,  that  proceeds  out  of  the  throne 


sc.  I.  CH.  IX.J 


V.   OF  PURITY. 


19 


of  tlie  Lamb,  is  clear  as  cr}^stal,  and  the  pavement  of  the  city 
is  pure  gold,  like  unto  clear  glass. ^ 

*  I  have  not  spoken  here  of  any  of  the  associations  connected  with  wannth 
or  coolness  of  color,  they  are  partly  connected  with  vital  beauty,  comparo 
Chap.  xiv.  §  22,  23,  and  partly  with  impressions  of  the  sublime,  the  discussion 
of  which  is  foreign  to  the  present  subject ;  purity,  however,  it  is  which  gives 
value  to  both,  for  neither  warm  nor  cool  color,  can  be  beautiful,  if  impure. 

Neither  have  I  spoken  of  any  questions  relating  to  melodies  of  color,  a  sub- 
ject of  separate  science — whose  general  principle  has  been  already  stated  in 
the  seventh  chapter  respecting  unity  of  sequence.  Those  qualities  only  arf, 
here  noted  which  give  absolute  beauty,  whether  to  separate  color  or  to  melo- 
dies of  it — for  all  melodies  are  not  beautiful,  but  only  those  which  are  expres- 
sive of  certain  pleasant  or  solemn  emotions ;  and  the  rest  startling,  or  curious, 
or  cheerful,  or  exciting,  or  sublime,  but  not  beautiful,  (and  so  in  music.)  And 
all  questions  relating  to  this  grandeur,  cheerfulness,  or  other  characteristic  im- 
pression of  color  must  be  considered  under  the  head  of  ideas  of  relation. 


CHAPTER  X. 


OF  MODERATION,   OR  THE  TYPE   OF  GOVERNMENT  BY  LAW. 

§  1.  Meaning  of  objects  wliich,  in  respect  of  the  qualities 

chastenes^s  and  t^i^lierto  Considered,  appear  to  have  equal  claims  to 
Refinement.  regard,  we  find,  nevertheless,  that  certain  are  pre- 
ferred to  others  in  consequence  of  an  attractive  power,  usually 
expressed  by  the  terms  ^'  chasteness,  refinement,  or  elegance,'' 
and  it  appears  also  that  things  which  in  other  respects  have  little 
in  them  of  natural  beauty,  and  are  of  forms  altogether  simple  and 
adapted  to  simple  uses,  are  capable  of  much  distinction  and 
desirableness  in  consequence  of  these  qualities  only.  It  is  of 
importance  to  discover  the  real  nature  of  the  ideas  thus  expressed. 
§  2  How  refer  Something  of  the  peculiar  meaning  of  the  words  is 
able  to  tempo-  referable  to  the  authority  of  fashion  and  the  exclu- 

rary  fashions.       .  n       -  ^  •  i  •  i      i  i  •  i    •  i 

siveness  or  pride,  owing  to  which  that  which  is  the 
mode  of  a  particular  time  is  submissiv^ely  esteemed,  and  that  which 
by  its  costliness  or  its  rarity  is  of  difficult  attainment,  or  in  any 
way  appears  to  have  been  chosen  as  the  best  of  many  things, 
(Avhich  is  the  original  sense  of  the  words  elegant  and  exquisite,) 
is  esteemed  for  the  witness  it  bears  to  the  dignity  of  the  chooser. 

But  neither  of  these  ideas  are  in  any  way  connected  with 
eternal  beauty,  neither  do  they  at  all  account  for  that  agreeable- 
ness  of  color  and  form  which  is  especially  termed  chasteness,  and 
which  it  would  seem  to  be  a  characteristic  of  rightly  trained  mind 
in  all  things  to  prefer,  and  of  common  minds  to  reject, 
o  ,T    .  There  is  however  another  character  of  artificial 

§  3.  IIo\T  to  the  . 

perception   of  productious,  to  which  thcsc  terms  have  partial  refer- 

completion.        ^  ,  .  ,    .    .       ^  .  i  /• 

ence,  which  it  is  oi  some  importance  to  note,  that  oi 
finish,  exactness,  or  refinement,  which  are  commonly  desired  in 
the  works  of  men,  owing  both  to  their  difficulty  of  accomplish- 
ment and  consequent  expression  of  care  and  power  (compare 
Chapter  on  Ideas  of  Power,  Part  I.  Sect,  i.,)  and  from  their 


tiC.  I.  CH.  X.] 


VI.   OF  MODERATION. 


81 


greater  resemblance  to  the  working  of  God,  whose  "absolute 
exactness,"  says  Hooker,  "  all  things  imitate,  by  tending  to  that 
which  is  most  exquisite  in  every  particular."  And  there  is  not  a 
greater  sign  of  the  imperfection  of  general  taste,  than  its  caj^ability 
of  contentment  with  forms  and  things  which,  professing  comple- 
tion, are  yet  not  exact  nor  complete,  as  in  the  vulgar  with  wax 
and  clay  and  china  figures,  and  in  bad  sculptors  with  an  unfinished 
and  clay-like  modelling  of  surface,  and  curves  and  angles  of  no 
precision  or  delicacy ;  and  in  general,  in  all  common  and  unthink- 
ing persons  with  an  imperfect  rendering  of  that  which  might  be 
pure  and  fine,  as  church-wardens  are  content  to  lose  the  sharp 
lines  of  stone  carving  under  clogging  obliterations  of  whitewash, 
and  as  the  modern  Italians  scrape  away  and  polish  white  all  the 
sharpness  and  glory  of  the  carvings  on  their  old  churches,  as 
most  miserably  and  pitifully  on  St.  Mark's  at  Venice,  §4.  Finish,  by 
and  the  Baptisteries  of  Pistoja  and  Pisa,  and  many  Isteemede^^^in- 
others ;  so  also  the  delight  of  vulgar  painters  in 
coarse  and  slurred  painting,  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  coarseness,^* 

*  It  13  to  be  carefully  noted  that  when  rude  execution  is  evidently  not  the  re- 
sult of  imperfect  feeling  and  desire  (as  in  these  men  above  named,  it  is)  but  of 
thought ;  either  impatient,  which  there  was  necessity  to  note  swiftly,  or  impet- 
uous, which  it  was  well  to  note  in  mighty  manner,  as  pre-eminently  and  in 
both  kinds  the  case  with  Tintoret,  and  often  with  Michael  Angelo,  and  in 
lower  and  more  degraded  modes  with  Rubens,  and  generally  in  the  sketches 
and  first  thoughts  of  great  masters  ;  there  is  received  a  very  noble  pleasure, 
connected  both  with  ideas  of  i»ower  (compare  again  Part  I.  Sect.  ii.  Chap.  I.) 
and  with  certain  actions  of  the  imagination  of  which  we  shall  speak  presently. 
But  this  pleasure  is  not  received  from  the  beauty  of  the  work,  for  nothing  can 
be  perfectly  beautiful  unless  complete,  but  from  its  simplicity  and  sufficiency 
to  its  immediate  purpose,  where  the  purpose  is  not  of  beauty  at  all,  as  often  in 
things  rough-hewn,  pre-eminently  for  instance  in  the  stones  of  the  founda- 
tions of  the  Pitti  and  Strozzi  palaces,  whose  noble  rudeness  is  to  be  opposed 
both  to  the  useless  polish,  and  the  barbarous  rustications  of  modern  times^ 
(although  indeed  this  instance  is  not  without  exception  to  be  received,  for  the 
majesty  of  these  rocky  buildings  depends  also  in  some  measure  upon  the  real 
Lcauty  and  finish  of  the  natural  curvilinear  fractures,  opposed  to  the  coarse- 
ness of  human  chiselhng,)  and  again,  as  it  respects  works  of  higher  art,  the 
pleasure  of  their  hasty  or  imperfect  execution  is  not  indicative  of  their  beauty, 
but  of  their  majesty  and  fulness  of  thought  and  vastness  of  power.  Shade 
19  only  beautiful  when  it  magnifies  and  sets  forth  the  forms  of  fair  things,  so 
negligence  is  only  noble  when  it  is,  as  Fuseli  hath  it,  "  the  shadow  of  energy,*^ 
Which  that  it  may  be,  secure  the  substance  and  the  shade  will  follow,  but  let 
the  artist  beware  of  steaUng  the  manner  of  giant  intellects  when  he  has  not 


82 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  in, 


as  of  Spagnoletto,  Salvator,  or  Murillo,  opposed  to  the  divine 
finish  which  the  greatest  and  mightiest  of  men  disdained  not,  but 
rather  wrought  out  with  painfulness  and  Hfe  spending ;  as  Leo- 
nardo and  Michael  Angelo,  (for  the  latter,  however  many  things 
he  left  unfinished,  did  finish,  if  at  all,  with  a  refinement  that  the 
eye  cannot  follow,  but  the  feeling  only,  as  in  the  Pieta  of  Genoa,) 
and  Perugino  always,  even  to  the  gilding  of  single  hairs  among 
his  angel  tresses,  and  the  young  Raffaelle,  when  he  was  heaven 
taught,  and  Angelico,  and  Pinturicchio,  and  John  Bellini,  and  all 
other  such  serious  and  loving  men.  Only  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
this  finish  is  not  a  part  or  constituent  of  beauty,  but  the  full  and 
tdtimate  rendering  of  it,  so  that  it  is  an  idea  only  connected  with 
the  works  of  men,  for  all  the  works  of  the  Deity  are  finished  with 
the  same,  that  is,  infinite  care  and  completion :  and  so  what 
degrees  of  beauty  exist  among  them  can  in  no  way  be  dependent 
upon  this  source,  inasmuch  as  there  are  between  them  no  degrees 
of  care.  And  therefore,  as  there  certainly  is  admitted  a  difference 
of  degree  in  what  we  call  chasteness,  even  in  Divine  work,  (com- 
pare the  hollyhock  or  the  sunflower  with  the  vale  lily,)  we  must 
seek  for  it  some  other  explanation  and  source  than  this. 
^       ^  And  if,  brinoincr  down  our  ideas  of  it  from  com- 

§  5.    Modera-       .  .       ^    ^  . 

tion,  its  nature  plicated  objects  to  simple  lines  and  colors,  we  analyze 
and  regard  them  carefully,  I  think  we  shall  be  able 
to  trace  them  to  an  under-current  of  constantly  agreeable  feeling, 
excited  by  the  appearance  in  material  things  of  a  self-restrained 
liberty,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  image  of  that  acting  of  God  with 
regard  to  all  his  creation,  wherein,  though  free  to  operate  in 
whatever  arbitrary,  sudden,  violent,  or  inconstant  ways  he  will, 
he  yet,  if  we  may  reverently  so  speak,  restrains  in  himself  this  his 

their  intention,  and  of  assuming  large  modes  of  treatment  when  he  has  little 
thoughts  to  treat.  There  is  large  difference  between  indolent  impatience  of 
labor  and  intellectual  impatience  of  delay,  large  difference  between  leaving 
things  unfinished  because  we  have  more  to  do,  or  because  we  are  satisfied 
with  what  we  have  done.  Tintoret,  who  prayed  hard,  and  hardly  obtained, 
that  he  might  be  permitted,  the  charge  of  his  colors  only  being  borne,  to  paint 
a  new  built  house  from  base  to  battlement,  was  not  one  to  shun  labor,  it  is  the 
pouring  in  upon  him  of  glorious  thoughts  in  inexpressible  multitude  that  his 
sweeping  hand  follows  so  fast.  It  is  as  easy  to  know  the  slightness  of  earnest 
haste  from  the  slightness  of  blunt  feeling,  indolence,  or  affectation,  as  it  is  to 
know  the  dust  of  a  race,  from  the  dust  of  dissolution. 


sc.  I.  CH.  X.] 


VI.   OF  MODERATION. 


80 


omnipotent  liberty,  and  works  always  in  consistent  modes,  called 
bj  us  laws.  And  this  restraint  or  moderation,  according  to  the 
words  of  Hooker,  (''that  which  doth  moderate  the  force  and 
power,  that  which  doth  appoint  the  form  and  measure  of  work- 
ing, the  same  we  term  a  law,")  is  in  the  Deity  not  restraint,  such 
as  it  is  said  of  creatures,  but,  as  again  says  Hooker,  "  the  very 
being  of  God  is  a  law  to  his  working,"  so  that  every  appearance 
of  painfulness  or  want  of  power  and  freedom  in  material  things 
is  wrong  and  ugly ;  for  the  right  restraint,  the  image  of  Divine 
operation,  is  both  in  them,  and  in  men,  a  willing  and  not  painful 
stopping  short  of  the  utmost  degree  to  which  their  power  might 
reach,  and  the  appearance  of  fettering  or  confinement  is  the 
cause  of  ugliness  in  the  one,  as  the  slightest  painfulness  or  effort 
in  restraint  is  a  sign  of  sin  in  the  other. 

I  have  put  this  attribute  of  beauty  last,  because  I  ^  ^  jg  ^j^^ 
consider  it  the  girdle  and  safeguard  of  all  the  rest,  and  girdle  of  beau- 
in  this  respect  the  most  essential  of  all,  for  it  is  pos- 
sible that  a  certain  degree  of  beauty  may  be  attained  even  in  the 
absence  of  one  of  its  other  constituents,  as  sometimes  in  some 
measure  without  symmetry  or  without  unity.  But  the  least  ap- 
pearance of  violence  or  extravagance,  of  the  want  of  moderation 
and  restraint,  is,  I  think,  destructive  of  all  beauty  whatsoever  in 
everything,  color,  form,  motion,  language,  or  thought,  giving  rise 
to  that  which  in  color  we  call  glaring,  in  form  inelegant,  in  motion 
ungraceful,  in  language  coarse,  in  thought  undisciplined,  in  all  un- 
chastened  ;  which  qualities  are  in  everything  most  painful,  because 
the  signs  of  disobedient  and  irregular  operation.  And  §  7.  how  found 
herein  we  at  last  find  the  reason  of  that  which  has  c^rve^ aLd  coi- 
been  so  often  noted  respecting  the  subtilty  and  almost 
invisibility  of  natural  curves  and  colors,  and  why  it  is  that  we  look 
on  those  lines  as  least  beautiful  which  fall  into  wide  and  far  license 
of  curvature,  and  as  most  beautiful  which  approach  nearest  (so 
that  the  curvilinear  character  be  distinctly  asserted)  to  the  govern- 
ment of  the  right  line,  as  in  the  pure  and  severe  curves  of  the  dra- 
peries of  the  religious  painters  ;  and  thus  in  color  it  is  not  red,  but 
rose-color  which  is  most  beautiful,  neither  such  actual  green  as 
we  find  in  summer  foHage  partly,  and  in  our  painting  of  it  con- 
stantly ;  but  such  gray  green  as  that  into  which  nature  modifies 
her  distant  tints,  or  such  pale  green  and  uncertain  as  we  see  in 


84 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  111 


sunset  sky,  and  in  the  clefts  of  the  glacier  and  the  chrysoprase, 
and  the  sea-foam  ;  and  so  of  all  colors,  not  that  they  may  not  some- 
times be  deep  and  full,  but  that  there  is  a  solemn  moderation  even 
in  their  very  fulness,  and  a  holy  reference  beyond  and  out  of  their 
own  nature  to  great  harmonies  by  which  they  are  governed,  and 
in  obedience  to  which  is  their  glory.  Whereof  the  ignorance  is 
shown  in  all  evil  colorists  by  the  violence  and  positiveness  of  their 
hues,  and  by  dulness  and  discordance  consequent,  for  the  very 
brilliancy  and  real  power  of  all  color  is  dependent  on  the  chasten- 
ing  of  it,  as  of  a  voice  on  its  gentleness,  and  as  of  action  on  its 
calmness,  and  as  all  moral  vigor  on  self-command.  And  there- 
o  o  TT    ^-^   fore  as  that  virtue  which  men  last,  and  with  most 

§  8.  How  diffi-  ' 

cult  of  attain-  difficulty  attain  unto,  and  which  many  attain  not  at 

ment,  yet   es-  .        .  . 

sentiaitoau  all,  and  yet  that  which  is  essential  to  the  conduct 
and  almost  to  the  being  of  all  other  virtues,  since  nei- 
ther imagination,  nor  invention,  nor  industry,  nor  sensibility,  nor 
energy,  nor  any  other  good  having,  is  of  full  avail  without  this  of 
self-command,  whereby  works  truly  masculine  and  mighty  are  pro- 
duced, and  by  the  signs  of  which  they  are  separated  from  that 
lower  host  of  things  brilliant,  magnificent  and  redundant,  and  far- 
ther yet  .from  that  of  the  loose,  the  lawless,  the  exaggerated,  xhe 
insolent,  and  the  profane,  I  would  have  the  necessity  of  it  foremost 
among  all  our  inculcating,  and  the  name  of  it  largest  among  all 
our  inscribing,  in  so  far  that,  over  the  doors  of  every  school  of 
Art,  I  would  have  this  one  word,  relieved  out  in  deep  letters  cf 
pure  gold, — 


CHAPTER  XI. 


GENERAL  INFERENCES  RESPECTING  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 

I  HAVE  now  enumerated,  and  in  some  measure  ex-  §i.  The  subject 
plained  those  characteristics  of  mere  matter  by  which  treTtedJ  ye?ad 
I  conceive  it  becomes  agreeable  to  the  theoretic  faculty,  gj^^^efnciif-*^"' 
under  whatever  form,  dead,  organized,  or  animated,  it  si^^'is. 
may  present  itself.  It  will  be  our  task  in  the  succeeding  volume 
to  examine,  and  illustrate  by  examples,  the  m-ode  in  which  these 
characteristics  appear  in  every  division  of  creation,  in  stones, 
mountains,  Avaves,  clouds,  and  all  organic  bodies ;  beginning  with 
vegetables,  and  then  taking  instances  in  the  range  of  animals 
from  the  mollusc  to  man ;  examining  how  one  animal  form  is  no- 
bler than  another,  by  the  more  manifest  presence  of  these  attri- 
butes, and  chiefly  endeavoring  to  show  how  much  there  is  of  ad- 
mirable and  lovely,  even  in  what  is  commonly  despised.  At  pres- 
ent I  have  only  to  mark  the  conclusions  at  wliich  we  have  as  yet 
arrived  respecting  the  rank  of  the  theoretic  faculty,  and  then  to 
pursue  the  inquiry  farther  into  the  nature  of  vital  beauty. 

As  I  before  said,  I  pretend  not  to  have  enumerated  all  the 
sources  of  material  beauty,  nor  the  analogies  connected  with 
them ;  it  is  probable  that  others  may  occur  to  many  readers,  or 
to  myself  as  I  proceed  into  more  particular  inquiry,  but  I  am  not 
careful  to  collect  all  conceivable  evidence  on  the  subject.  I  de- 
sire only  to  assert  and  prove  some  certain  principles,  and  by  means 
of  these  to  show,  in  some  measure,  the  inherent  worthiness  and 
glory  of  God's  works  and  something  of  the  relations  they  bear  to 
each  other  and  to  us,  leaving  the  subject  to  be  fully  pursued,  as 
it  only  can  be,  by  the  ardor  and  affection  of  those  whom  it  may 
interest. 

The  qualities  above  enumerated  are  not  to  be  con-  §  2.  Typical 
sidered  as  stamped  upon  matter  for  our  teaching  or  ateT^"  man^s 
enjoyment  only,  but  as  the  necessary  consecjuence  of 


86 


OF  TYPICAL  BEAUTY. 


[PJRT  III. 


the  perfection  of  God's  working,  and  the  inevitable  stamp  of  his 
image  on  what  he  creates.  For  it  would  be  inconsistent  with  his 
Infinite  perfection  to  work  imperfectly  in  any  place,  or  in  any  mat- 
ter; wherefore  we  do  not  find  that  flowers  and  fair  trees,  and 
kindly  skies,  are  given  only  where  man  may  see  them  and  be  fed 
by  them,  but  the  Spirit  of  God  works  everywhere  alike,  where 
there  is  no  eye  to  see,  covering  all  lonely  places  with  an  equal 
glory,  using  the  same  pencil  and  outpouring  the  same  splendor,  in 
the  caves  of  the  waters  where  the  sea-snakes  swim,  and  in  the  des- 
ert where  the  satyrs  dance,  among  the  fir-trees  of  the  stork,  and 
the  rocks  of  the  conies,  as  among  those  higher  creatures  whom  he 
§  3.  But  de-  has  made  capable  witnesses  of  his  working.  Never- 
Srsake^admit-  theless,  I  think  that  the  admission  of  different  degrees 
of  this  glory  and  image  of  himself  upon  creation,  has 
the  look  of  something  meant  especially  for  us ;  for  although,  in 
pursuance  of  the  appointed  system  of  government  by  universal 
laws,  these  same  degrees  exist  where  we  cannot  witness  them,  yet 
the  existence  of  degrees  at  all  seems  at  first  unlikely  in  Divine 
work,  and  I  cannot  see  reason  for  it  unless  that  palpable  one  of 
increasing  in  us  the  understanding  of  the  sacred  characters  by 
showing  us  the  results  of  their  comparative  absence.  For  I  know 
not  that  if  all  things  had  been  equally  beautiful,  we  could  have 
received  the  idea  of  beauty  at  all,  or  if  we  had,  certainly  it  had 
become  a  matter  of  indifference  to  us,  and  of  little  thought,  whereas 
through  the  beneficent  ordaining  of  degrees  in  its  manifestation, 
the  hearts  of  men  are  stirred  by  its  occasional  occurrence  in  its 
noblest  form,  and  all  their  energies  are  awakened  in  the  pursuit 
of  it,  and  endeavor  to  arrest  it  or  recreate  it  for  themselves.  But 
§  4.  What  en-  whatever  doubt  there  may  be  respecting  the  exact 
hence°to^be*^re-  amount  of  modification  of  created  things  admitted  with 
ceived.  reference  to  us,  there  can  be  none  respecting  the  dig- 

nity of  that  faculty  by  which  we  receive  the  mysterious  evidence 
of  their  divine  origin.  The  fact  of  our  deriving  constant  pleasure 
from  A\  hatever  is  a  type  or  semblance  of  Divine  attributes,  and  from 
nothing  but  that  which  is  so,  is  the  most  glorious  of  all  that  can 
be  demonstrated  of  human  nature  ;  it  not  only  sets  a  great  gulf  of 
specific  separation  between  us  and  the  lower  animals,  but  it  seems 
a  promise  of  a  communion  ultimately  deep,  close,  and  conscious, 
with  the  Being  whose  darkened  manifestations  we  here  feebly  and 


sc.  I.  CH.  XI.] 


VII.   GENERAL  INFERENCES. 


87 


unthinkingly  delight  in.  Probably  to  every  order  of  intelligence 
more  of  his  image  becomes  palpable  in  all  around  them,  and  the 
glorified  spirits  and  the  angels  have  perceptions  as  much  more  full 
and  rapturous  than  ours,  as  ours  than  those  of  beasts  and  creeping 
tilings.  And  receiving  it,  as  we  must,  for  an  universal  axiom  that 
"  no  natural  desire  can  be  entirely  frustrate,"  and  seeing  that  these 
desires  are  indeed  so  unfailing  in  us  that  they  have  escaped  not 
the  reasoners  of  any  time,  but  were  held  divine  of  old,  and  in  even 
heathen  countries,^  it  cannot  be  but  that  there  is  in  these  vision- 
ary pleasures,  lightly  as  we  now  regard  them,  cause  for  thankful- 
ness, ground  for  hope,  anchor  for  faith,  more  than  in  all  the  other 
manifold  gifts  and  guidances,  wherewith  God  crowns  the  years, 
and  hedges  the  paths  of  men. 

*  'H  ^£  T£\eia  evSaifiovia  Btwpr^TiKfi  rig  iariv  tvi^ytia.  *  *  roXq  filv  yap  Oeoig  aVas 
h  01)^  fjiaKapingj  roTg  6^  d^doroTroiCf  e<p'  oaov  h[x-)i(jOfjid  ti  Trjg  TOiavrrjg  evF-pyeiag  virap-^ei. 
•tof  S'a'Wcov  ^(owv  ovSci/  ivSaifxovei,  ineiSn  ov^afxTj  koivovu  Ofojpiag. — Arist.  Eth.  Lib. 

10th.  The  concluding  book  of  the  Ethics  should  be  carefully  read.  It  is  a}] 
most  valuable. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OF  VITAL  BEAUTY.     FIRST,  AS  RELATIVE. 

I  PROCEED  more  particularly  to  examine  the  nature 

§  1  Transition  t  i  -    ■,     n  ^  /•i«it  i- 

from  typical  to  01  that  seconcl  kmd  of  beauty  of  which  I  spoke  in  the 
vital  Beauty.  chapter,  as  consisting  in  "the  appearance  of 

felicitous  fulfilment  of  function  in  living  things."  I  have  already 
noticed  the  example  of  very  pure  and  high  typical  beauty  which 
is  to  be  found  in  the  lines  and  gradations  of  unsullied  snow :  If, 
passing  to  the  edge  of  a  sheet  of  it,  upon  the  lower  Alps,  early  in 
May,  we  find,  as  we  are  nearly  sure  to  find,  two  or  three  little 
round  openings  pierced  in  it,  and  through  these  emergent,  a  slen- 
der, pensive,  fragile  flower^*  whose  small  dark,  purple-fringed  bell 
hangs  down  and  shudders  over  the  icy  cleft  that  it  has  cloven,  as 
if  partly  wondering  at  its  own  recent  grave,  and  partly  dying  of 
very  fatigue  after  its  hard  won  victory ;  we  shall  be,  or  we  ought 
to  be,  moved  by  a  totally  different  impression  of  loveliness  from 
that  which  we  receive  among  the  dead  ice  and  the  idle  clouds. 
There  is  now  uttered  to  us  a  call  for  sympathy,  now  offered  to  us 
an  image  of  moral  purpose  and  achievement,  which,  however  un- 
conscious or  senseless  the  creature  may  indeed  be  that  so  seems 
to  call,  cannot  be  heard  without  affection,  nor  contemplated  with- 
out worship,  by  any  of  us  whose  heart  is  rightly  tuned,  or  whose 
mind  is  clearly  and  surely  sighted. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  organic  creation  every  being  in  a 
perfect  state  exhibits  certain  appearances,  or  evidences,  of  happi- 
ness, and  besides  is  in  its  nature,  its  desires,  its  modes  of  nourish- 
ment, habitation,  and  death,  illustrative  or  expressive  of  certain 
moral  dispositions  or  principles.  Noav,  first,  in  the  keenness  of 
the  sympathy  which  we  feel  in  the  happiness,  real  or  apparent,  of 
all  organic  beings,  and  which,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  invariably 
prompts  us,  from  the  joy  we  have  in  it,  to  look  upon  those  as 
*  Soldanella  Alpina. 


SC,  I.  CH.  XII.] 


I.  RELATIVE. 


89 


most  lovely  which  are  most  happy ;  and  secondly,  in  the  justness 
of  the  moral  sense  which  rightly  reads  the  lesson  they  are  all  in- 
tended to  teach,  and  classes  them  in  orders  of  worthiness  and 
heauty  according  to  the  rank  and  nature  of  that  lesson,  whether 
it  be  of  warning  or  example,  of  those  that  wallow  or  of  those  that 
soar,  of  the  fiend-hunted  swine  by  the  Gennesaret  lake,  or  of  the 
dove  returning  to  its  ark  of  rest ;  in  our  right  accepting  and  read- 
ing of  all  this,  consists,  I  say,  the  ultimately  perfect  condition  of 
that  noble  theoretic  faculty,  whose  place  in  the  system  of  oui 
nature  I  have  already  partly  vindicated  with  respect  to  typical,  but 
which  can  only  fully  be  established  with  respect  to  vital  beauty. 

Its  first  perfection,  therefore,  relating  to  vital  beauty,  §  2.  The  per 
is  the  kindness  and  unselfish  fulness  of  heart,  Avhich  tSretic^facui- 
receives  the  utmost  amount  of  pleasure  from  the  ^^it^yftai^beau? 
happiness  of  all  things.  Of  which  in  high  degree  the  charity, 
heart  of  man  is  incapable,  neither  what  intense  enjoyment  the 
angels  may  have  in  ail  that  they  see  of  things  that  move  and  live, 
and  in  the  part  they  take  in  the  shedding  of  God's  kindness  upon 
them,  can  we  know  or  conceive :  only  in  proportion  as  we  draw 
near  to  God,  and  are  made  in  measure  like  unto  him,  can  we  in- 
crease this  our  possession  of  charity,  of  which  the  entire  essence 
is  in  God  only. 

Wherefore  it  is  evident  that  even  the  ordinary  exercise  of  this 
faculty  implies  a  condition  of  the  whole  moral  being  in  some  meas- 
ure right  and  healthy,  and  that  to  the  entire  exercise  of  it  there 
is  necessary  the  entire  perfection  of  the  Christian  character,  for 
he  who  loves  not  God,  nor  his  brother,  cannot  love  the  grass  be- 
neath his  feet  and  the  creatures  that  fill  those  spaces  in  the  uni- 
verse which  he  needs  not,  and  which  live  not  for  his  uses  ;  nay, 
he  has  seldom  grace  to  be  grateful  even  to  those  that  love  him 
and  serve  him,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  none  can  love  God  nor 
Lis  human  brother  without  loving  all  things  which  his  Father 
loves,  nor  without  looking  upon  them  every  one  as  in  that  respect 
his  brethren  also,  and  perhaps  worthier  than  he,  if  in  the  under 
concords  they  have  to  fill,  their  part  is  touched  more  truly. 
Wherefore  it  is  good  to  read  of  that  kindness  and  humbleness  of 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  who  spoke  never  to  bird  nor  to  cicala,  noi 
even  to  wolf  and  beast  of  prey,  but  as  his  brother ;  and  so  we  find 
ai'e  moved  the  minds  of  all  good  and  mighty  men,  as  in  the  lesson 


90 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


that  we  have  from  the  Mariner  of  Coleridge,  and  yet  more  truly 
and  rightly  taught  in  the  Heartleap  well,  "  never  to  blend  oui 
pleasure,  or  our  pride,  with  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that 
feels,"  and  again  in  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  with  the  added 
teaching  of  that  gift,  which  we  have  from  things  beneath  us,  in 
thanks  for  the  love  they  cannot  equally  return ;  that  anguish  of 
our  own  is  tempered  and  allayed  by  sympathies.  Aloft  ascend- 
ing  and  descending  deep.  Even  to  the  inferior  kinds,''  so  that  I 
know  not  of  anything  more  destructive  of  the  whole  theoretic 
faculty,  not  to  say  of  the  Christian  character  and  human  intellect, 
than  those  accursed  sports  in  which  man  makes  of  himself,  cat, 
tiger,  serpent,  chaetodon,  and  alligator  in  one,  and  gathers  into  one 
continuance  of  cruelty  for  his  amusement  all  the  devices  that 
brutes  sparingly  and  at  intervals  use  against  each  other  for  their 
necessities."^ 

§  3  Only  with  P^^^  from  those  beings  of  whose  happiness 

respect  to  and  pain  we  are  certain  to  those  in  which  it  is  doubt- 
affection  than  ful  or  Only  seeming,  as  possibly  in  plants,  (though  I 
sympathy.  ^yould  fain  hold,  if  I  might,  "  the  faith  that  every 
flower,  enjoys  the  air  it  breathes,"  neither  do  I  ever  crush  or 
gather  one  without  some  pain,)  yet  our  feeling  for  them  has  in  it 
more  of  sympathy  than  of  actual  love,  as  receiving  from  them  in 
delight  far  more  than  we  can  give ;  for  love,  I  think,  chiefly  grows 
in  giving,  at  least  its  essence  is  the  desire  of  doing  good,  or  giving 
happiness,  and  we  cannot  feel  the  desire  of  that  which  we  cannot 
conceive,  so  that  if  we  conceive  not  of  a  plant  as  capable  of  pleas- 
ure, we  cannot  desire  to  give  it  pleasure,  that  is,  we  cannot  love 
it  in  the  entire  sense  of  the  term. 

Nevertheless,  the  sympathy  of  very  lofty  and  sensitive  minds 
usually  reaches  so  far  as  to  the  conception  of  life  in  the  plant,  and 
so  to  love,  as  with  Shelley,  of  the  sensitive  plant,  and  Slmkspeare 
always,  as  he  has  taught  us  in  the  sweet  voices  of  Ophelia  and 
Pcrdita,  and  Wordsworth  always,  as  of  the  daffodils,  and  the  ce- 
landine. 

*  I  would  have  Mr.  Landseer,  before  he  gives  us  any  more  writing  otters, 
or  yelping  packs,  refect  whether  that  which  is  best  worthy  of  contemplation 
in  a  hound  be  its  ferocity,  or  in  an  otter  its  agony,  or  in  a  human  being  its 
victory,  hardly  achieved  even  with  the  aid  of  its  more  sagacious  brutal  alLes 
over  a  poor  little  fish-catching  creature,  a  foot  long. 


6C.  I.  CH.  XII.  I 


I.  RELATIVE. 


91 


"  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold. 
This  neither  is  its  courage,  nor  its  choice, 
But  its  necessity  in  being  old," — 

and  5*0  all  other  great  poets  (that  is  to  say,  great  seers  nor  do  1 
believe  that  any  mind,  however  rude,  is  without  some  slight  per- 
ception or  acknowledgment  of  joyfulness  in  breathless  things,  as 
most  certainly  there  are  none  but  feel  instinctive  delight  in  the 
appearances  of  such  enjoyment. 

For  it  is  matter  of  easy  demonstration,  that  setting  ^  ^  which  is 
the  characters  of  typical  beauty  aside,  the  pleasure  proportioned  to 

^      ,  .    .  .  .       the  appearance 

afforded  by  every  organic  form  is  in  proportion  to  its  ofenergy  inthe 
appearance  of  healthy  vital  energy  ;  as  in  a  rose-bush, 
setting  aside  all  the  considerations  of  gradated  flushing  of  coloi 
and  fair  folding  of  line,  which  it  shares  with  the  cloud  or  the  snow-- 
wreath, we  find  in  and  through  all  this,  certain  signs  pleasant  and 
acceptable  as  signs  of  life  and  enjoyment  in  the  particular  indi- 
vidual plant  itself.  Every  leaf  and  stalk  is  seen  to  have  a  func- 
tion, to  be  constantly  exercising  that  function,  and  as  it  seems 
solely/  for  the  good  and  enjoyment  of  the  plant.  It  is  true  that 
reflection  will  show  us  that  the  plant  is  not  living  for  itself  alone, 
that  its  life  is  one  of  benefaction,  that  it  gives  as  well  as  receives, 
but  no  sense  of  this  whatsoever  mingles  with  our  perception  of 
physical  beauty  in  its  forms.  Those  forms  appear  to  be  necessary 
to  its  health,  the  symmetry  of  its  leaflets,  the  smoothness  of  its 
stalks,  the  vivid  green  of  its  shoots,  are  looked  upon  by  us  as 
signs  of  the  plant's  own  happiness  and  perfection ;  they  are  use- 
less to  us,  except  as  they  give  us  pleasure  in  our  sympathizing 
with  that  of  the  plant,  and  if  we  see  a  leaf  withered  or  shrunk  or 
worm-eaten,  we  say  it  is  ugly,  and  feel  it  to  be  most  painful,  not 
because  it  hurts  us,  but  because  it  seems  to  hurt  the  plant,  and 
conveys  to  us  an  idea  of  pain  and  disease  and  failure  of  life  in  it. 
That  the  amount  of  pleasure  we  receive  is  in  exact  proportion 
to  the  appearance  of  vigor  and  sensibility  in  the  plant,  is  easily 
pr  )ved  by  observing  the  effect  of  those  which  show  the  evidences 
of  it  in  the  least  degree,  as,  for  instance,  any  of  the  cacti  not  in 

♦  Compare  Milton. 

"  They  at  her  coming  sprung 
And  touched  by  her  fair  tendance,  gladUer  grew/* 


92 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part 


flower.  Tlieir  masses  are  heavy  and  simple,  their  growth  slow^ 
their  various  parts  jointed  on  one  to  another,  as  if  they  were 
buckled  or  pinned  together  instead  of  growing  out  of  each  other, 
(note  the  singular  imposition  in  many  of  them,  the  prickly  pear 
for  instance,  of  the  fruit  upon  the  body  of  the  plant,  so  that  it 
looks  like  a  swelling  or  disease,)  and  often  farther  opposed  by 
harsh  truncation  of  line  as  in  the  cactus  truncato-phylla.  All  these 
circumstances  so  concur  to  deprive  the  plant  of  vital  evidences, 
that  we  receive  from  it  more  sense  of  pain  than  of  beauty ;  and 
yet  even  here,  the  sharpness  of  the  angles,  the  symmetrical  order 
and  strength  of  the  spines,  the  fresh  and  even  color  of  the  body, 
are  looked  for  earnestly  as  signs  of  healthy  condition,  our  pain  is 
increased  by  their  absence,  and  indefinitely  increased  if  blotches, 
and  other  appearances  of  bruise  and  decay  interfere  with  that  lit- 
tle life  which  the  plant  seems  to  possess. 

The  same  singular  characters  belong  in  animals  to  the  Crustacea, 
as  to  the  lobster,  crab,  scorpion,  etc.,  and  in  great  measure  de- 
prive them  of  the  beauty  which  we  find  in  higher  orders,  so  that 
we  are  reduced  to  look  for  their  beauty  to  single  parts  and  joints, 
and  not  to  the  whole  animal. 

§  5  This  sym  ^ow  I  wisli  particularly  to  impress  upon  the  reader 
pathy  is  unsei-  that  all  these  sensations  of  beauty  in  the  plant  arise 
not  regard  utii-  from  our  unselfisli  Sympathy  with  its  happiness,  and 
not  from  any  view  of  the  qualities  in  it  which  may 
bring  good  to  us,  nor  even  from  our  acknowledgment  is  it  of  any 
moral  condition  beyond  that  of  mere  felicity  ;  for  such  an  acknowl- 
edgment, belongs  to  the  second  operation  of  the  theoretic  faculty 
(compare  §  2,)  and  not  to  the  sympathetic  part  which  we  are  at 
present  examining ;  so  that  we  even  find  that  in  this  respect,  the 
moment  we  begin  to  look  upon  any  creature  as  subordinate  to 
some  purpose  out  of  itself,  some  of  the  sense  of  organic  beauty 
is  lost.  Thus,  when  we  are  told  that  the  leaves  of  a  plant  are  oc- 
cupied in  decomposing  carbonic  acid,  and  preparing  oxygen  for 
us,  we  begin  to  look  upon  it  with  some  such  indifference  as  upon 
a  gasometer  It  has  become  a  machine  ;  some  of  our  sense  of  its 
happiness  is  gone ;  its  eraanatior*  of  inherent  life  is  no  longei 
pure.  The  bending  trunk,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wind  above 
the  waterfall  is  beautiful  because  it  is  happy,  though  it  is  perfectly 
useless  to  us.    The  same  trunk,  hewn  down  and  thrown  across  the 


sc.  I.  CH.  XII.] 


I.  RELATIVE. 


93 


stream,  lias  lost  its  Leauty.  It  serves  as  a  bridge, — it  has  become 
useful ;  it  lives  not  for  itself,  and  its  beauty  is  gone,  or  what  it 
retains  is  purely  typical,  dependent  on  its  lines  and  colors,  not  on 
its  functions.  Saw  it  into  planks,  and  though  now  adapted  to  be- 
come permanently  useful,  its  whole  beauty  is  lost  forever,  or  to  be 
regained  only  in  part  when  decay  and  ruin  shall  have  withdrawn 
it  again  from  use,  and  left  it  to  receive  from  the  hand  of  nature 
the  velvet  moss  and  varied  lichen,  which  may  again  suggest  ideas 
of  inherent  happiness,  and  tint  its  mouldering  sides  with  hues  of 
life. 

There  is  something,  I  think,  peculiarly  beautiful  and  instructive 
in  this  unselfishness  of  the  theoretic  faculty,  and  in  its  abhorence 
of  all  utility  which  is  based  on  the  pain  or  destruction  of  any  crea- 
ture, for  in  such  ministerinof  to  each  other  as  is  consistent  with  the 
essence  and  energy  of  both,  it  takecs  delight,  as  in  the  clothing  of 
the  rock  by  the  herbage,  and  the  feeding  of  the  herbage  by  the. 
stream. 

But  still  more  distinct  evidence  of  its  being  indeed  ^  ^  Especi  iiy 
the  expression  of  happiness  to  which  we  look  for  our  witii  respect  to 
first  pleasure  in  organic  form,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
way  in  which  we  regard  the  bodily  frame  of  animals  :  of  which  it 
is  to  be  noted  first,  that  there  is  not  anything  which  causes  so  in- 
tense and  tormenting  a  sense  of  ugliness  as  any  scar,  wound,  mon- 
strosity, or  imperfection  which  seems  inconsistent  with  the  ani- 
mal's  ease  and  health ;  and  that  although  in  vegetables,  where 
there  is  no  immediate  sense  of  pain,  we  are  comparatively  little 
hurt  by  excrescences  and  irregularities,  but  are  sometimes  even 
delighted  with  them,  and  fond  of  them,  as  children  of  the  oak- 
apple,  and  sometimes  look  upon  them  as  more  interesting  than 
the  uninjured  conditions,  as  in  the  gnarled  and  knotted  trunks  of 
trees ;  yet  the  slightest  approach  to  anything  of  the  kind  in  ani- 
mal form  is  regarded  with  intense  horror,  merely  from  the  sense 
of  pain  it  conveys.  And,  in  the  second  place,  it  is  to  ^  7  ^^^^  jg 
be  noted  that  whenever  we  dissect  the  animal  frame,  ^viScts  of 
or  conceive  it  as  dissected,  and  substitute  in  our  ideas  meciianism. 
the  neatness  of  mechanical  contrivance  for  the  pleasure  of  the  an- 
imal ;  the  moment  we  reduce  enjoyment  to  ingenuity,  and  volition 
to  leverage,  that  instant  all  sense  of  beauty  disappears.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  action  of  the  limb  of  the  ostrich,  which  is  beautiful 


94 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  nr 


so  long  as  we  see  it  in  its  svdft  uplifting  along  the  desert  sands, 
and  trace  in  the  tread  of  it  her  scorn  of  the  horse  and  his  rider, 
but  would  infinitely  lose  of  its  impressiveness,  if  we  could  see  the 
spring  ligament  playing  backwards  and  forwards  in  alternate  jerks 
over  the  tubercle  at  the  hock  joint.  Take  again  the  action  of  the 
dorsal  fin  of  the  shark  tribe.  So  long  as  we  observe  the  uniforro 
energy  of  motion  in  the  whole  frame,  the  lash  of  the  tail,  bound 
of  body,  and  instantaneous  lowering  of  the  dorsal,  to  avoid  the 
resistance  of  the  water  as  it  turns,  there  is  high  sense  of  organic 
power  and  beauty.  But  when  we  dissect  the  dorsal,  and  find 
that  its  superior  ray  is  supported  in  its  position  by  a  peg  in  a  notch 
at  its  base,  and  that  when  the  fin  is  to  be  lowered,  the  peg  has  to 
be  taken  out,  and  when  it  is  raised  put  in  again ;  although  we 
are  filled  with  wonder  at  the  ingenuity  of  the  mechanical  con- 
trivance, all  our  sense  of  beauty  is  gone,  and  not  to  be  recovered 
until  we  again  see  the  fin  playing  on  the  animal's  body,  apparently 
by  its  own  will  alone,  with  the  life  running  along  its  rays.  It  is 
by  a  beautiful  ordinance  of  the  Creator  that  all  these  mechanisms 
are  concealed  from  sight,  though  open  to  investigation,  and  that  in 
all  which  is  outwardly  manifested  we  seem  to  see  his  presence 
rather  than  his  workmanship,  and  the  mysterious  breath  of  life, 
rather  than  the  manipulation  of  matter. 

As,  therefore,  it  appears  from  all  evidence  that  it  is  the  sense 
of  felicity  which  we  first  desire  in  organic  form,  it  is  evident  from 
reason,  as  demonstrable  by  experience,  that  those  forms  will  be 
the  most  beautiful  (always,  observe,  leaving  typical  beauty  out  of 
the  question)  which  exhibit  most  of  power,  and  seem  capable  of 
most  quick  and  joyous  sensation.  Hence  we  find  gradations  of 
beauty  from  the  apparent  impenetrableness  of  hide  and  slow  mo- 
tion of  the  elephant  and  rhinoceros,  from  the  foul  occupation  of 
^he  vulture,  from  the  earthy  struggling  of  the  worm,  to  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  butterfly,  the  buoyancy  of  the  lark,  the  swiftness  of 
the  fawn  and  the  horse,  the  fair  and  kingly  sensibility  of  man. 

Thus  far  then,  the  theoretic  faculty  is  concerned 
perVeS^r^o?^  with  the  happiness  of  animals,  and  its  exercise  de- 
facuUy''arcon-  pends  on  the  cultivation  of  the  affections  onlj.  Let 
cernedwith        g  j^^^^.  Q]3gerve  how  it  is  concemcd  with  the  moral 

life  IS  justice  of 

moral  judg-      functions  of  auimals,  and  therefore  how  it  is  depend- 

ment. 

ent  on  the  cultivation  of  every  moral  sense.  There 


sc.  I.  CH.  XII.] 


I.  RELATIVE. 


95 


is  not  any  organic  creature,  but  in  its  history  and  habits  it  shall 
exemplify  or  illustrate  to  us  some  moral  excellence  or  deficiency, 
or  some  point  of  God's  providential  government,  which  it  is  ne- 
cessary for  us  to  know.  Thus  the  functions  and  the  fates  of  ani- 
mals are  distributed  to  them,  with  a  variety  which  exhibits  to  us 
the  dignity  and  results  of  almost  every  passion  and  kind  of  con- 
duct, some  filthy  and  slothful,  pining  and  unhappy ;  some  rapa- 
cious, restless,  and  cruel ;  some  ever  earnest  and  laborious,  and, 
I  think,  unhappy  in  their  endless  labor,  creatures,  like  the  bee, 
that  heap  up  riches  and  cannot  tell  who  shall  gather  them,  and 
others  employed  like  angels  in  endless  offices  of  love  and  praise. 
Of  which  when,  in  right  condition  of  mind,  we  esteem  those  most 
beautiful,  whose  functions  are  the  most  noble,  whether  as  some, 
in  mere  energy,  or  as  others,  in  moral  honor,  so  that  we  look  with 
hate  on  the  foulness  of  the  sloth,  and  the  subtlety  of  the  adder, 
and  the  rage  of  the  hyena  :  with  the  honor  due  to  their  earthly 
wisdom  we  invest  the  earnest  ant  and  unwearied  bee  ;  but  we 
look  with  full  perception  of  sacred  function  to  the  tribes  of  burn- 
ing plumage  and  choral  voice.  And  so  what  lesson  we  might 
receive  for  our  earthly  conduct  from  the  creeping  and  laborious 
things,  was  taught  us  by  that  earthly  king  who  made  silver  to  be 
in  Jerusalem  as  stones  (yet  thereafter  was  less  rich  towards  God.) 
But  from  the  lips  of  an  heavenly  King,  who  had  not  where  to  lay 
his  head,  we  were  taught  what  lesson  we  have  to  learn  from  those 
higher  creatures  who  sow  not,  nor  reap,  nor  gather  into  barns,  for 
their  Heavenly  Father  feedeth  them. 

There  is  much  difficulty  in  the  way  of  our  looking  §  9.  hqw  im- 
with  this  rightly  balanced  judgment  on  the  moral  func- 
tions  of  the  animal  tribes,  owing  to  the  independent  and  often  op- 
posing characters  of  typical  beauty,  which  are  among  them,  as  it 
seems,  arbitrarily  distributed,  so  that  the  most  fierce  and  cruel  are 
often  clothed  in  the  liveliest  colors,  and  strengthened  by  the  no- 
blest forms,  with  this  only  exception,  that  so  far  as  I  know,  there 
is  no  high  beauty  in  any  slothful  animal,  but  even  among  those  of 
prey,  its  characters  exist  in  exalted  measure  upon  those  that  range 
and  pursue,  and  are  in  equal  degree  withdrawn  from  those  that 

♦  *  Type  of  the  wise — who  soar,  but  never  roam, 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  heaven  and  home." 

(Wordsworth. — To  the  Skylark.) 


96 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  iii» 


lie  subtly  and  silently  in  the  covert  of  the  reed  and  fens.  But 
that  mind  only  is  fully  disciplined  in  its  theoretic  power,  which 
can,  when  it  chooses,  throwing  off  the  sympathies  and  repugnan- 
cies with  which  the  ideas  of  destructiveness  or  of  innocence  ac- 
custom us  to  regard  the  animal  tribes,  as  well  as  those  meaner 
likes  and  dislikes  which  arise,  I  think,  from  the  greater  or  less  re- 
semblance of  animal  powers  to  our  own,  can  pursue  the  pleasures 
of  typical  beauty  down  to  the  scales  of  the  alligator,  the  coils  of 
the  serpent,  and  the  joints  of  the  beetle ;  and  again,  on  the  othei 
hand,  regardless  of  the  impressions  of  typical  beauty,  accept  fron? 
each  creaiure,  great  or  small,  the  more  important  lessons  taught 
by  its  position  in  creation  as  sufferer  or  chastiser,  as  lowly  or  hav- 
ing dominion,  as  of  foul  habit  or  lofty  aspiration,  and  from  the 
several  perfections  which  all  illustrate  or  possess,  courage,  perse- 
verance, industry,  or  intelligence,  or,  higher  yet,  of  love  and  pa- 
tience, and  fidelity  and  rejoicing,  and  never  wearied  praise. 
§10.  Theinflu-  Which  moral  perfections  that  they  indeed  are  pro- 
gi^^ns  hfexpres-  ductive,  in  proportion  to  their  expression,  of  instant 
beauty  instinctively  felt,  is  best  proved  by  comparing 
those  parts  of  animals  in  which  they  are  definitely  expressed,  as 
for  instance  the  eye,  of  which  we  shall  find  those  ugliest  which 
have  in  them  no  expression  nor  life  whatever,  but  a  corpse-like 
stare,  or  an  indefinite  meaningless  glaring,  as  in  some  lights,  those 
of  owls  and  cats,  and  mostly  of  insects  and  of  all  creatures  in 
which  the  eye  seems  rather  an  external,  optical  instrument  than  a 
bodily  member  through  which  emotion  and  virtue  of  soul  may  be 
expressed,  (as  pre-eminently  in  the  chameleon,)  because  the  seem- 
ing Avant  of  sensibility  and  vitality  in  a  living  creature  is  the  most 
painful  of  all  wants.  And  next  to  these  in  ugliness  come  the  eyes 
that  gain  vitality  indeed,  but  only  by  means  of  the  expression  of 
intense  malignity,  as  in  the  serpent  and  alligator;  and  next  to 
these,  to  whose  malignity  is  added  the  virtue  of  subtlety  and 
keenness,  as  of  the  lynx  and  hawk ;  and  then,  by  diminishing  the 
malignity  and  increasing  the  expressions  of  comprehensiveness  and 
determination,  we  arrive  at  those  of  the  lion  and  eagle,  and  at  last, 
by  destroying  malignity  altogether,  at  the  fair  eye  of  the  herbiv- 
orous tribes,  wherein  the  superiority  of  beauty  consists  always  in 
the  greater  or  less  sweetness  and  gentleness  primarily,  as  in  the 
gazelle,  camel,  and  ox,  and  in  the  greater  or  less  intellect,  secon- 


sc.  I.  CH.  XII.J 


I.  RELATIVE. 


97 


darily,  as  in  the  horse  and  dog,  and  finally,  in  gentleness  and  in- 
tellect both  in  man.  And  again,  taking  the  mouth,  another  som^ce 
of  expression,  we  find  it  ugliest  where  it  has  none,  as  mostly  in 
fish,  or  perhaps  where  without  gaining  much  in  expression  of  any 
kind,  it  becomes  a  formidable  destructive  instrument,  as  again  in 
the  alligator,  and  then,  by  some  increase  of  expression,  we  arrive 
at  birds'  beaks,  wherein  there  is  more  obtained  by  the  different 
ways  of  setting  on  the  mandibles  than  is  commonly  supposed, 
(compare  the  bills  of  the  duck  and  the  eagle,)  and  thence  we  reach 
the  finely  developed  lips  of  the  carnivora,  which  nevertheless  lose 
that  beauty  they  have,  in  the  actions  of  snarling  and  biting,  and 
from  these  we  pass  to  the  nobler  because  gentler  and  more  sensi 
ble,  of  the  horse,  camel,  and  fawn,  and  so  again  up  to  man,  only 
there  is  less  traceableness  of  the  principle  in  the  mouths  of  the 
lower  animals,  because  they  are  in  slight  measure  only  capable  of 
expression,  and  chiefly  used  as  instruments,  and  that  of  low  func- 
tion, whereas  in  man  the  mouth  is  given  most  definitely  as  a  means 
of  expression,  beyond  and  above  its  lower  functions.  Compare 
the  remarks  of  Sir  Charles  Bell  on  this  subject  in  his  Essay  on 
Expression,  and  compare  the  mouth  of  the  negro  head  given  by 
him  (p.  28,  third  edition)  with  that  of  RafFaelle's  St.  Catherine.  I 
shall  illustrate  tlie  subject  farther  hereafter  by  giving  the  mouth 
of  one  of  the  demons  of  Orcagna's  Inferno,  with  projecting  inci- 
sors, and  that  of  a  fish  and  a  swine,  in  opposition  to  pure  graminiv- 
orous and  human  forms ;  but  at  present  it  is  sufficient  for  my  pur- 
pose to  insist  on  the  single  great  principle,  that,  wherever  expres- 
sion is  possible,  and  uninterfered  with  by  characters  of  typical 
beauty,  which  confuse  the  subject  exceedingly  as  regards  the 
mouth,  (for  the  typical  beauty  of  the  carnivorous  lips  is  on  a  grand 
scale,  while  it  exists  in  very  low  degree  in  the  beaks  of  birds,) 
wherever,  I  say,  these  considerations  do  not  interfere,  the  beauty 
of  the  animal  form  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the  amount  of  moral 
or  intellectual  virtue  expressed  by  it ;  and  wherever  beauty  exists 
at  all,  there  is  some  kind  of  virtue  to  which  it  is  owing,  as  the 
majesty  of  the  lion's  eye  is  owing  not  to  its  ferocity,  but  to  its  se- 
riousness and  seeming  intellect,  and  of  the  lion's  mouth  to  its 
strength  and  sensibility,  and  not  its  gnashing  of  teeth,  nor  wrink- 
ling in  its  wrath ;  and  farther  be  it  noted,  that  of  the  intellectual 
or  moral  virtues,  the  moral  are  those  which  are  attended  with  most 
VOL.  n.  5 


98 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III 


beauty,  so  that  tlie  gentle  eye  of  the  gazelle  is  fairer  to  look  upon 
than  the  more  keen  glance  of  men,  if  it  be  unkind. 
§  11.  As  also  parallel  effects  of  expression  upon  plants 

in  plants.  there  is  little  to  be  noted,  as  the  mere  namino:  of  the 
subject  cannot  but  bring  countless  illustrations  to  the  mind  of 
every  reader :  only  this,  that,  as  we  saw  they  were  less  suscepti])]e  * 
of  our  sympathetic  love,  owing  to  the  absence  in  them  of  capa- 
bility of  enjoyment,  so  they  are  less  open  to  the  affections  based 
upon  the  expression  of  moral  virtue,  owing  to  their  want  of  voli- 
tion ;  so  that  even  on  those  of  them  which  are  deadly  and  unkind 
we  look  not  without  pleasure,  the  more  because  this  their  evil  ope- 
ration cannot  be  by  them  outwardly  expressed,  but  only  by  us 
empirically  known ;  so  that  of  the  outward  seemings  and  expres- 
sions of  plants,  there  are  few  but  are  in  some  way  good  and  there- 
fore beautiful,  as  of  humility,  and  modesty,  and  love  of  places  and 
things,  in  the  reaching  out  of  their  arms,  and  clasping  of  their  ten- 
drils ;  and  energy  of  resistance,  and  pa  tience  of  suffering,  and  be- 
neficence one  towards  another  in  shade  and  protection,  and  to  us 
also  in  scents  and  fruits  (for  of  their  healing  virtues,  however  im- 
portant to  us,  there  is  no  more  outward  sense  nor  seeming  than 
of  their  properties  mortal  or  dangerous.) 

§  12.  Recapitu-  Whence,  in  fine,  looking  to  the  whole  kingdom  of 
lation.  organic  nature,  we  find  that  our  full  receiving  of  its 

beauty  depends  first  on  the  sensibility  and  then  on  the  accuracy 
and  touchstone  faithfulness  of  the  heart  in  its  moral  judgments,  so 
that  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  not  only  love  all  creatures  well, 
but  esteem  them  in  that  order  which  is  according  to  God's  laws 
and  not  according  to  our  own  human  passions  and  predilections, 
not  looking  for  swiftness,  and  strength,  and  cunning,  rather  than 
for  patience  and  kindness,  still  less  delighting  in  their  animosity 
and  cruelty  one  towards  another,  neither,  if  it  may  be  avoided,  in- 
terfering with  the  working  of  nature  in  any  way,  nor,  when  we 
interfere  to  obtain  service,  judging  from  the  morbid  conditions  of 
the  animal  or  vegetable  so  induced  ;  for  we  see  every  day  the  the- 
oretic faculty  entirely  destroyed  in  those  who  are  interested  in 
particular  animals,  by  their  delight  in  the  results  of  their  own  teach- 
ing, and  by  the  vain  straining  of  curiosity  for  new  forms  such  as 
nature  never  intended,  as  the  disgusting  types  for  instance,  which 
we  see  earnestly  sought  for  by  the  fanciers  of  rabbits  and  pigeons. 


BC.  I.  CH.  XII.] 


I.  RELATIVE. 


99 


and  constantly  in  horses,  substituting  for  the  true  and  balanced 
beauty  of  the  free  creature  some  morbid  development  of  a  single 
power,  as  of  swiftness  in  the  racer,  at  the  expense,  in  certain  meas- 
ure, of  the  animal's  healthy  constitution  and  fineness  of  form ; 
and  so  the  delight  of  horticulturists  in  the  spoiling  of  plants ;  so 
that  in  all  cases  we  are  to  beware  of  such  opinions  as  seem  in  any 
way  referable  to  human  pride,  or  even  to  the  grateful  or  pernicious 
influence  of  things  upon  ourselves,  and  to  cast  the  mind  free,  and 
out  of  ourselves,  humbly,  and  yet  always  in  that  noble  position  of 
pause  above  the  other  visible  creatures,  nearer  God  than  they, 
which  we  authoritatively  hold,  thence  looking  down  upon  them, 
and  testing  the  clearness  of  our  moral  vision  by  the  extent,  and 
fulness,  and  constancy  of  our  pleasure  in  the  light  of  God's  love  as 
it  embraces  them,  and  the  harmony  of  his  holy  laws,  that  forever 
bring  mercy  out  of.  rapine,  and  religion  out  of  wrath. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY.  SECONDLY  AS  GENERIC. 

§1  The  beauty  HiTHERTo  wc  have  observed  the  conclusions  of  the 
of  fulfilment  of  theoretic  faculty  with  respect  to  the  relations  of  hap- 

appointea  func-     .  ^  ... 

tion  in  every  piness,  and  of  morc  or  less  exalted  function  existing 
between  different  orders  of  organic  being.  But  we 
must  pursue  the  inquiry  farther  yet,  and  observe  what  impressions 
of  beauty  are  connected  with  more  or  less  perfect  fulfilment  of 
the  appointed  function  by  different  individuals  of  the  same  spe- 
cies. V/ e  are  now  no  longer  called  to  pronounce  upon  worthiness 
of  occupation  or  dignity  of  disposition ;  but  both  employment  and 
capacity  being  known,  and  the  animal's  position  and  duty  fixed, 
we  have  to  regard  it  in  that  respect  alone,  comparing  it  with  other 
individuals  of  its  species,  and  to  determine  how  far  it  worthily  ex- 
ecutes its  office ;  whether,  if  scorpion,  it  have  poison  enough,  or  if 
tiger,  strength  enough,  or  if  dove,  innocence  enough,  to  sustain 
rightly  its  place  in  creation,  and  come  up  to  the  perfect  idea  of 
dove,  tiger,  or  scorpion. 

In  the  first  or  sympathetic  operation  of  the  theoretic  faculty, 
it  will  be  remembered,  we  receive  pleasure  from  the  signs  of  mere 
happiness  in  living  things.  In  the  second  theoretic  operation  of 
comparing  and  judging,  we  constituted  ourselves  such  judges  of 
the  lower  creatures  as  Adam  was  made  by  God  when  they  were 
brought  to  him  to  be  named,  and  we  allowed  of  beauty  in  them  as 
they  reached,  more  or  less,  to  that  standard  of  moral  perfection  by 
which  we  test  ourselves.  But,  in  the  third  place,  we  are  to  come 
down  again  from  the  judgment  seat,  and  taking  it  for  granted  that 
every  creature  of  God  is  in  some  way  good,  and  has  a  duty  and 
specific  operation  providentially  accessory  to  the  well-being  of  all, 
we  are  to  look  in  this  faith  to  that  employment  and  nature  of  each, 
and  to  derive  pleasure  from  their  entire  perfection  and  fitness  for 
the  duty  they  have  to  do,  and  in  their  entire  fulfilment  of  it ;  and 


sc.  1.  CH.  XIII.] 


II.  GENERIC. 


10) 


so  we  are  to  take  pleasure  and  find  beauty  in  the  magnificent 
binding  together  of  the  jaws  of  the  ichthyosaurus  for  catching  and 
holding,  and  in  the  adaptation  of  the  lion  for  springing,  and  of  the 
locust  for  destroying,  and  of  the  lark  for  singing,  and  in  every 
creature  for  the  doing  of  that  which  God  has  made  it .  to  do. 
Which  faithful  pleasure  in  the  perception  of  the  perfect  operation 
of  lower  creatures  I  have  placed  last  among  the  perfections  of  the 
theoretic  faculty  concerning  them,  because  it  is  .commonly  last 
acquired,  both  owing  to  the  humbleness  and  trustfulness  of  heart 
which  it  demands,  and  because  it  implies  a  knowledge  of  the  habits 
and  structure  of  every  creature,  such  as  we  can  but  imperfectly 
possess. 

The  perfect  idea  of  the  form  and  condition  in  which  §  2.  The  two 
all  the  properties  of  the  species  are  fully  developed,  wor^i'^'MdeaL" 
is  called  the  ideal  of  the  species.  The  question  of  the  ^  a!^tion  of  uie 
nature  of  ideal  conception  of  species,  and  of  the  mode  imagiuatiou, 
in  which  the  mind  arrives  at  it,  has  been  the  subject  of  so  much 
discussion,  and  source  of  so  much  embarrassment,  chiefly  owing 
to  that  unfortunate  distinction  between  idealism  and  realism  which 
leads  most  people  to  imagine  the  ideal  opposed  to  the  real,  and 
therefore  false,  that  I  think  it  necessary  to  request  the  reader's 
most  careful  attention  to  the  following  positions. 

Any  work  of  art  which  represents,  not  a  material  object,  but 
the  mental  conception  of  a  material  object,  is,  in  the  primary 
sense  of  the  word  ideal  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  represents  an  idea,  and 
not  a  thing.  Any  work  of  art  which  represents  or  realizes  a  ma- 
terial object,  is,  in  the  primary  sense  of  the  term,  unideal. 

Ideal  works  of  art,  therefore,  in  this  first  sense,  represent  the 
result  of  an  act  of  imagination,  and  are  good  or  bad  in  proportion 
to  the  healthy  condition  and  general  power  of  the  imagination 
whose  acts  they  represent. 

Unideal  works  of  art  (the  studious  production  of  which  is 
termed  realism)  represent  actual  existing  things,  and  are  good  or 
bad  in  proportion  to  the  perfection  of  the  representation. 

All  entirely  bad  works  of  art  may  be  divided  into  those  which, 
professing  to  be  imaginative,  bear  no  stamp  of  imagination,  and 
are  therefore  false,  and  those  which,  professing  to  be  representa- 
tive of  matter,  miss  of  the  representation  and  are  therefore  nu- 
gatory. 


102 


OF  VITAL  BEAUT/. 


[part  IIL 


It  is  the  habit  of  most  observers  to  regard  art  as  representative 
of  matter,  and  to  look  only  for  the  entireness  of  representation; 
and  it  was  to  this  view  of  art  that  I  limited  the  arguments  of  the 
former  sections  of  the  present  work,  wherein  having  to  oppose  the 
conclusions  of  a  criticism  entirely  based  upon  the  realist  system, 
I  was  compelled  to  meet  that  criticism  on  its  own  grounds.  But 
the  greater  part  of  works  of  art,  more  especially  those  devoted  to 
the  expression -of  ideas  of  beauty,  are  the  results  of  the  agency  of 
imagination,  their  worthiness  depending,  as  above  stated,  on  the 
healthy  condition  of  the  imagination. 

Hence  it  is  necessary  for  us,  in  order  to  arrive  at  conclusions 
respecting  the  worthiness  of  such  works,  to  define  and  examine 
the  nature  of  the  imaginative  faculty,  and  to  determine  first  what 
are  the  signs  or  conditions  of  its  existence  at  all ;  and  secondly, 
what  are  the  evidences  of  its  healthy  and  efficient  existence,  upon 
which  examination  I  shall  enter  in  the  second  section  of  the  pres- 
ent part. 

§  3.  Or  to  per-  ^^^^  there  is  another  sense  of  the  word  ideal  be- 
fection  of  type.  giJes  this,  and  it  is  that  with  which  we  are  here  con- 
cerned. It  is  evident  that,  so  long  as  we  use  the  word  to  signify 
that  art  which  represents  ideas  and  not  things,  we  may  use  it  as 
truly  of  the  art  which  represents  an  idea  of  Caliban,  and  not  real 
Caliban,  as  of  the  art  wliich  represents  an  idea  of  Antinous,  and 
not  real  Antinous.  For  that  is  as  much  imagination  which  con- 
ceives the  monster  as  which  conceives  the  man.  If,  however, 
Caliban  and  Antinous  be  creatures  of  the  same  species,  and  the 
form  of  the  one  contain  not  the  fully  developed  types  or  characters 
of  the  species,  while  the  form  of  the  other  presents  the  greater 
part  of  them,  then  the  latter  is  said  to  be  a  form  more  ideal  than 
the  other,  as  a  nearer  approximation  to  the  general  idea  or  con- 
ception of  the  species. 

$  4.  This  last  Now  it  is  evident  that  this  use  of  the  word  ideal  is 
curate^^yerto  niuch  less  accurate  than  the  other,  from  which  it  is 
be  retained.  derived,  for  it  rests  on  the  assumption  that  the  assem- 
blage of  all  the  characters  of  a  species  in  their  perfect  develop- 
ment cannot  exist  but  in  the  imagination.  For  if  it  can  actually 
and  in  reality  exist,  it  is  not  right  to  call  it  ideal  or  imaginary; 
it  would  be  better  to  call  it  characteristic  or  general,  and  to  re- 


sc.  I.  CH.  XIII.] 


II.  GENERIC. 


103 


serve  the  word  ideal  for  the  results  of  the  operation  of  the  imag- 
ination, either  on  the  perfect  or  imperfect  foi'ms. 

Nevertheless,  the  word  ideal  has  been  so  long  and  universallv 
accepted  in  this  sense,  that  I  think  it  better  to  continue  the  use 
of  it,  so  only  that  the  reader  will  be  careful  to  observe  the  distinc- 
tion in  the  sense,  according-  to  the  subject  matter  under  discussion. 
At  present  then,  using  it  as  expressive  of  the  noble  generic  form 
which  indicates  the  full  perfection  of  the  creature  in  all  its  func- 
tions, I  wish  to  examine  how  far  this  perception  exists  or  may 
exist  in  nature,  and  if  not  in  nature,  how  it  is  by  us  discoverable 
or  imao'inable. 

o 

'Now  it  is  better,  when  we  wish  to  arrive  at  truth,  §  5  of  ideal 
always  to  take  familiar  instances,  wherein  the  mind  is  the^ioweraii^ 
not  likely  to  be  biassed  by  any  elevated  associations 
or  favorite  theories.  Let  us  ask  therefore,  first,  what  kind  of  ideal 
form  may  be  attributed  to  a  limpet  or  an  oyster,  that  is  to  say, 
wliether  all  oysters  do  or  do  not  come  up  to  the  entire  notion  or 
idea  of  an  oyster.  I  apprehend  that,  although  in  respect  of  size, 
age,  and  kind  of  feeding,  there  may  be  some  difference  between 
them,  yet  of  those  which  are  of  full  size  and  healthy  condition 
there  will  be  found  many  which  fulfil  the  conditions  of  an  oyster 
in  ever}^  respect,  and  that  so  perfectly,  that  we  could  not,  by  com- 
bining the  features  of  two  or  more  together,  produce  a  more  per- 
fect oyster  than  any  that  we  see.  I  suppose  also,  that,  out  of  a 
number  of  healthy  fish,  birds,  or  beasts  of  the  same  species,  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  select  an  individual  as  superior  to  all  the 
rest ;  neither  by  comparing  two  or  more  of  the  nobler  examples 
together,  to  arrive  at  the  conception  of  a  form  superior  to  that 
of  either ;  but  that,  though  the  accidents  of  more  abundant  food 
or  more  fitting  habitation  may  induce  among  them  some  varieties 
of  size,  strength,  and  color,  yet  the  entire  generic  form  would  be 
presented  by  many,  neither  would  any  art  be  able  to  add  to  or 
diminish  from  it. 

It  is,  therefore,  hardly  right  to  use  the  word  ideal  §  6.  in  whfA 
of  the  generic  forms  of  these  creatures,  of  which  we 
see  actual  examples ;  but  if  we  are  to  use  it,  then  be  it  distinctly 
understood  that  their  ideality  consists  in  the  full  development  of 
all  the  powers  and  properties  of  the  creature  as  such,  and  is  in- 
consistent with  accidental  or  imperfect  developments,  and  even 


104 


OF  VITaL  beauty. 


[pAi»  HI. 


with  great  variation  from  average  size,  the  ideal  size  being  nei- 
ther gigantic  nor  diminutive,  but  the  utmost  grandeur  and  entire- 
ness  of  proportion  at  a  certain  point  above  the  mean  size  ;  for 
as  more  individuals  always  fall  short  of  generic  size  than  rise 
above  it,  the  generic  is  above  the  average  or  mean  size.  And  this 
perfection  of  the  creature  invariably  involves  the  utmost  possible 
degree  of  all  those  properties  of  beauty,  both  typical  and  vital, 
which  it  is  appointed  to  possess. 

6  7.  Ideal  form  Let  US  next  obscrve  the  conditions  of  ideality  in 
in  vegetables,  vegetables.  Out  of  a  large  number  of  primroses  or 
violets,  I  apprehend  that,  although  one  or  two  might  be  larger 
than  all  the  rest,  the  greater  part  would  be  very  sufficient  prim- 
roses and  violets.  And  that  we  could,  by  no  study  nor  combi- 
nation of  violets,  conceive  of  a  better  violet  than  many  in  the 
bed.  And  so  generally  of  the  blossoms  and  separate  members  of 
all  vegetables. 

But  among  the  entire  forms  of  the  complex  vegetables,  as  of 
oak-trees,  for  instance,  there  exists  very  large  and  constant  dif- 
ference, some  being  what  we  hold  to  be  fine  oaks,  as  in  parks,  and 
places  where  they  are  taken  care  of,  and  have  .their  own  way, 
and  some  are  but  poor  and  mean  oaks,  which  have  had  no  one  to 
take  care  of  them,  but  have  been  obliged  to  maintain  themselves. 
^?^;^1iat  which  we  have  to  determine  is,  whether  ideality  be  pre- 
di cable  of  the  fine  oaks  <^nly,  or  whether  the  poor  and  mean  oaks 
also  may  be  considered  as  ideal,  that  is,  coming  up  to  the  con- 
ditions of  oak,  and  the  general  notion  of  oak. 

Now  there  is  this  difference  between  the  positions 

§  8    The  dif- 

fereiice  of  posi-  held  in  Creation  by  animals  and  plants,  and  thence  in 
plants  and  ani-  the  dispositions  with  w^hich  we  regard  them  ;  that  the 
animals,  being  for  the  most  part  locomotive,  are  ca- 
pable both  of  living  where  they  choose,  and  of  obtaining  what 
food  they  want,  and  of  fulfilling  all  the  conditions  necessary  to 
their  health  and  perfection.  For  which  reason  they  are  answer- 
able for  such  health  and  perfection,  and  we  should  be  displeased 
and  hurt  if  we  did  not  find  it  in  one  individual  as  avcU  as  another. 

But  the  case  is  evidently  different  with  plants.  They  arc  in- 
tended fixedly  to  occupy  many  places  comparatively  unfit  for 
them,  and  to  fill  up  all  the  spaces  where  greenness,  and  coolness, 
and  ornament,  and  oxygen  are  wanted,  and  that  with  very  little 


so.  I.  CH.  XIII.] 


II.  GENERIC 


105 


reference  to  their  comfort  or  convenience.  Xow  i*.  would  be  hard 
upon  the  plant  if,  after  being  tied  to  a  particular  spot,  where  it  is 
indeed  much  wanted,  and  is  a  great  blessing,  but  where  it  has 
enougli  to  do  to  live,  whence  it  cannot  move  to  obtain  what  it 
wants  or  likes,  but  must  stretch  its  unfortunate  arms  here  and 
there  for  bare  breath  and  light,  and  split  its  way  among  rocksj. 
and  grope  for  sustenance  in  unkindly  soil ;  it  would  be  hard  upon 
the  plant,  I  say,  if  under  all  these  disadvantages,  it  were  made 
answerable  for  its  appearance,  and  found  fault  with  because  it 
was  not  a  fine  plant  of  the  kind.  And  so  we  find  it  §  9.  Admits  of 
ordained  that  in  order  that  no  unkind  comparisons  m  eaf of  t  he  f or - 
may  be  drawn  between  one  and  another,  there  are  not 
appointed  to  plants  the  fixed  number,  position,  and  proportion  of 
members  which  are  ordained  in  animals,  (and  any  variation  from 
which  in  these  is  unpardonable,)  but  a  continually  varying  number 
and  position,  even  among  the  more  freely  grovfing  examples,  ad- 
mitting therefore  all  kinds  of  license  to  those  which  have  enemies 
to  contend  with,  and  that  without  in  any  way  detracting  from 
their  dignity  and  perfection. 

So  then  there  is  in  trees  no  perfect  form  which  can  be  fixed 
upon  or  reasoned  out  as  ideal ;  but  that  is  always  an  ideal  oak 
which,  however  poverty-stricken,  or  hunger-pinched,  or  tempest- 
tortured,  is  yet  seen  to  have  done,  under  its  appointed  circum- 
stances, all  that  could  be  expected  of  oak. 

The  ideal,  therefore,  of  the  park  oak  is  that  to  which  I  alluded 
in  the  conclusion  of  the  former  part  of  this  work,  full  size,  united 
terminal  curve,  equal  and  symmetrical  range  of  branches  on  each 
side.  The  ideal  of  the  mountain  oak  may  be  anything,  twisting, 
and  leaning,  and  shattered,  and  rock -encumbered,  so  only  that 
amidst  all  iU  misfortunes,  it  maintain  the  dignity  of  oak;  and,  in- 
deed, I  look  upon  this  kind  of  tree  as  more  ideal  than  the  other, 
in  so  far  as  by  its  efforts  and  struggles,  more  of  its  nature,  endu- 
ring power,  patience  in  waiting  for,  and  ingenuity  in  obtaining 
what  it  wants,  is  brought  out,  and  so  more  of  the  essence  of  oak 
exhibited,  than  under  more  fortunate  conditions. 
S 10.  Ideal  form  And  herein,  then,  we  at  last  find  the  cause  of  thai 
dLstro}^d^by  ^^^^  whicli  WO  havo  twicc  already  noted,  that  the  ex- 
cuitivation.  altcd  or  seemingly  improved  condition,  whether  of 
plant  or  animal,  induced  by  human  interference,  is  not  the  true 

5* 


106 


OF   VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III 


and  artistical  ideal  of  it."^  It  has  been  well  shown  by  Dr.  Her- 
bert,! that  many  plants  are  found  alone  on  a  certain  soil  or  sub- 
soil in  a  wild  state,  not  because  such  soil  is  favorable  to  them,  but 
because  they  alone  are  capable  of  existing  on  it,  and  because  all 
dangerous  rivals  are  by  its  inhospitahty  removed.  Now  if  we 
withdraw  the  plant  from  this  position,  which  it  hardly  endures, 
and  supply  it  with  the  earth,  and  maintain  about  it  the  tempera- 
ture that  it  delights  in ;  withdrawing  from  it  at  the  same  time  all 
rivals  which,  in  such  conditions  nature  would  have  thrust  upon  it, 
we  shall  indeed  obtain  a  magnificently  developed  example  of  the 
plant,  colossal  in  size,  and  splendid  in  organization,  but  we  shall 
utterly  lose  in  it  that  moral  ideal  which  is  dependent  on  its  right 
fulfilment  of  its  appointed  functions.  It  was  intended  and  created 
by  the  Deity  for  the  covering  of  those  lonely  spots  where  no 
other  plant  could  live  ;  it  has  been  thereto  endowed  with  courage, 
and  strength,  and  capacities  of  endurance  unequalled  ;  its  char- 
acter and  glory  are  not  therefore  in  the  gluttonous  and  idle  feel- 
ing of  its  own  over  luxuriance,  at  the  expense  of  other  creatures 
utterly  destroyed  and  rooted  out  for  its  good  alone,  but  in  its 
right  doing  of  its  hard  duty,  and  forward  climbing  into  those 
spots  of  forlorn  hope  where  it  alone  can  bear  witness  to  the  kind- 
ness and  presence  of  the  Spirit  that  cutteth  out  rivers  among  the 
the  rocks,  as  it  covers  the  valleys  with  corn :  and  there,  in  its  van- 
ward  place,  and  only  there,  where  nothing  is  withdrawn  for  it, 
nor  hurt  by  it,  and  where  nothing  can  take  part  of  its  honor,  nor 
usurp  its  throne,  are  its  strength,  and  fairness,  and  price,  and 
goodness  in  the  sight  of  God,  to  be  truly  esteemed. 
§  11.  Instance  The  first  time  that  I  saw  the  soldanella  alpina,  be- 
neiia^and'^iu'  ^^^^^  spokcu  of,  it  was  growing,  of  magnificent  size,  on 
nuncuius.  suiiuy  Alpine  pasture,  among  bleating  of  sheep  and 

lowing  of  cattle,  associated  with  a  profusion  of  geum  montanum, 
and  ranunculus  pyrenaeus.    I  noticed  it  only  because  new  to  me, 

*  I  speak  not  here  of  those  conditions  of  vegetation  which  have  especial  ref 
erence  to  man,  as  of  se^ds  and  fruits,  whose  sweetness  and  farina  seem  in  great 
measure  given,  not  for  the  plant's  sake,  but  for  his,  and  to  which  therefore  the 
interruption  in  the  harmony  of  creation  of  which  he  was  the  cause  is  extended ; 
and  their  sweetness  and  larger  measure  of  good  to  be  obtained  only  by  his  re- 
deeming labor.  His  curse  has  fallen  on  the  corn  and  the  vine,  and  the  wild 
barley  misses  of  its  fulness,  that  he  may  eat  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 

■f  Journal  of  the  Horticultural  Society.    Part  I. 


sc.  I.  OH.  XIII. J 


II.  GENERIC. 


107 


nor  perceived  any  peculiar  beauty  in  its  cloven  flower.  Some 
days  after,  I  found  it  alone,  among  the  rack  of  the  higher  clouds., 
and  howling  of  glacier  winds,  and,  as  I  described  it,  piercing 
through  an  edge  of  avalanche,  which  in  its  retiring  had  left  the 
new  ground  brown  and  lifeless,  and  as  if  burned  by  recent  fire  ; 
the  plant  was  poor  and  feeble,  and  seemingly  exhausted  with  its 
efforts,  but  it  was  then  that  I  comprehended  its  ideal  character, 
and  saw  its  noble  function  and  order  of  glory  among  the  constel- 
lations of  the  earth. 

The  ranunculus  glacialis  might  perhaps,  by  cultivation,  be 
blanched  from  its  wan  and  corpse-like  paleness  to  purer  white, 
and  won  to  more  branched  and  lofty  development  of  its  ragged 
leaves.  But  the  ideal  of  the  plant  is  to  be  found  only  in  the  last, 
loose  stones  of  the  moraine,  alone  there ;  wet  with  the  cold,  un- 
kindly drip  of  the  glacier  water,  and  trembling  as  the  loose  and 
steep  dust  to  which  it  clings  yields  ever  and  anon,  and  shudders 
and  crumbles  away  from  about  its  root. 

And  if  it  be  asked  how  this  conception  of  the  ut-  ^  The  beau- 
most  beauty  of  ideal  form  is  consistent  with  what  we  ty  of  repose  ana 

/•I  I  -11  ^>    1       felicity,  how 

formerly  argued  respecting  the  pleasantness  of  the  consistent  vath 
appearance  of  felicity  in  the  creature,  let  it  be  ob- 
served, and  forever  held,  that  the  right  and  true  happiness  of 
every  creature,  is  in  this  very  discharge  of  its  function,  and  in 
those  efforts  by  w^hich  its  strength  and  inherent  energy  are  de- 
veloped :  and  that  the  repose  of  which  we  also  spoke  as  necessary 
to  all  beauty,  is,  as  was  then  stated,  repose  not  of  inanition,  nor 
of  luxury,  nor  of  irresolution,  but  the  repose  of  magnificent  energy 
and  being ;  in  action,  the  calmness  of  trust  and  determination ;  in 
rest,  the  consciousness  of  duty  accomplished  and  of  victory  won, 
and  this  repose  and  this  felicity  can  take  place  as  well  in  the 
midst  of  trial  and  tempest,  as  beside  the  waters  of  comfort ;  they 
perish  only  when  the  creature  is  either  unfaithful  to  itself,  or  is 
afflicted  by  circumstances  unnatural  and  malignant  to  its  being, 
and  for  the  contending  with  which  it  was  neither  fitted  nor  or- 
dained. Hence  that  rest  which  is  indeed  glorious  is  of  the  cha- 
mois couched  breathless  on  liis  granite  bed,  not  of  the  stalled  ox 
over  his  fodder,  and  that  happiness  which  is  indeed  beautiful  is  in 
the  bearing  of  those  trial  tests  which  are  appointed  for  the  prov- 
ing of  every  creature,  whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil ; 


108 


or   VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


and  in  the  fulfilment  to  the  uttermost  of  every  command  it  has 
received,  and  the  out-carrying  to  the  uttermost  of  every  power 
and  gift  it  has  gotten  from  its  God. 

^  13.  The  ide-  Therefore  the  task  of  the  painter  in  liis  pursuit  of 
aiity  of  Art.  ideal  form  is  to  attain  accurate  knowledge,  so  fiir  as 
may  be  in  his  power,  of  the  character,  habits,  and  peculiar  virtues 
and  duties  of  every  species  of  being ;  down  even  to  the  stone,  for 
there  is  an  ideality  of  stones  according  to  their  kind,  an  ideality 
of  granite  and  slate  and  marble,  and  it  is  in  the  utmost  and  most 
exalted  exhibition  of  such  individual  character,  order,  and  use, 
tl^at  all  ideality  of  art  consists.  The  more  .cautious  he  is  in  as- 
signing the  right  species  of  moss  to  its  favorite  trunk,  and  the 
right  kind  of  weed  to  its  necessary  stone,  in  marking  the  definite 
and  characteristic  leaf,  blossom,  seed,  fracture,  color,  and  inward 
anatomy  of  everything,  the  more  truly  ideal  his  work  becomes. 
All  confusion  of  species,  all  careless  rendering  of  character,  all 
unnatural  and  arbitrary  association,  is  vulgar  and  unideal  in  pro- 
portion to  its  degree. 

§  14.  How  con-  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  nature  sometimes 
imaSnative  fe-  ^  measure  herself  conceals  these  generic  diiferences, 
cuities.  ^-^^^  when  she  displays  them  it  is  commonly  on  a 

scale  too  small  for  human  hand  to  follow. 

The  pursuit  and  seizure  of  the  generic  differences  in  their  con- 
cealment, and  the  display  of  them  on  a  larger  and  more  palpable 
scale,  is  one  of  the  wholesome  and  healthy  operations  of  the  im- 
agination of  which  we  are  presently  to  speak. '"^ 

Generic  differences  being  commonly  exhibited  by  art  in  differ- 
ent manner  and  way  from  that  of  their  natural  occurrence,  are  in 
this  respect  more  strictly  and  truly  ideal  in  art  than  in  reality. 
§  lo.  Ideality,  This  Only  remains  to  be  noted,  that,  of  all  creatures 
tJT'Igef  and°^  whosc  cxistcnce  involves  birth,  progress,  and  dissolu- 
eonditions  ^j^^j^^  ideality  is  predicable  all  through  their  existence, 
so  that  they  be  perfect  with  reference  to  their  supposed  period  of 
being.  Thus  there  is  an  ideal  of  infancy,  of  youth,  of  old  age,  of 
death,  and  of  decay.  But  when  the  ideal  form  of  the  species  is 
spoken  of  or  conceived  in  general  terms,  the  form  is  understood 
to  be  of  that  period  when  the  generic  attributes  are  perfectly  de- 
veloped, and  previous  to  the  commencement  of  their  decline.  At 
♦  Compare  Sect.  II.  Chap.  IV. 


sc.  I.  CH.  Xlll.] 


II.  GENERIC. 


109 


which  period  all  the  characters  of  vital  and  typical  beauty  are 
commonly  most  concentrated  in  them,  though  the  arrangement 
and  proportion  of  these  characters  varies  at  different  periods 
youth  having  more  of  the  vigorous  beauty,  and  age  of  the  re- 
posing ;  youth  of  typical  outward  fairness,  and  age  of  expanded 
and  etherealized  moral  expression;  the  babe,  again,  in  some 
measure  atoning  in  gracefulness  for  its  want  of  strength,  so  that 
the  balanced  glory  of  the  creature  continues  in  solemn  interchange, 
T)erhaps  even 

"  Filling  more  and  more  with  crystal  light, 
As  pensive  evening  deepens  into  night." 

Hitherto,  however,  we  have  confined  ourselves  to  the  examina- 
tion of  ideal  form  in  the  lower  animals,  and  we  have  found  that, 
to  arrive  at  it,  no  combination  of  forms  nor  exertion  of  fancy  is 
required,  but  only  simple  choice  among  those  naturally  presented, 
too^ether  with  careful  investio-ation  and  anatomizincy  of  the  habits 
of  the  creatures.  I  fear  we  shall  arrive  at  a  very  different  con- 
clusion, in  considering  the  ideal  form  of  man 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY.  THIRDLY,  IN  MAN. 


i  i.  Ccndition  Having  thus  passcd  gradually  tlirougli  all  the 
cJ.auTre^intire^  orders  and  fields  of  creation,  and  traversed  that 
that onhe?o^>^  goodly  line  of  God's  happy  creatures  who  "  leap 
er  animals.  j^ot,  but  express  a  fcast,  where  all  the  guests  sit 
close,  and  nothing  wants,"  without  finding  any  deficiency  which 
human  invention  might  supply,  nor  any  harm  which  human  in- 
terference might  mend,  we  come  at  last  to  set  ourselves  face  to 
face  with  ourselves,  expecting  that  in  creatures  made  after  the 
image  of  God  we  are  to  find  comeliness  and  completion  more  ex- 
quisite than  in  the  fowls  of  the  air  and  the  things  that  pass 
through  the  paths  of  the  sea. 

But  behold  now  a  sudden  change  from  all  former  experience. 
No  longer  among  the  individuals  of  the  race  is  there  equality  or 
likeness,  a  distributed  fairness  and  fixed  type  visible  in  each,  but 
evil  diversity,  and  terrible  stamp  of  various  degradation  ;  features 
seamed  with  sickness,  dimmed  by  sensuality,  convulsed  by  pas- 
sion, pinched  by  poverty,  shadowed  by  sorrow,  branded  with 
remorse  ;  bodies  consumed  with  sloth,  broken  down  by  labor, 
tortured  by  disease,  dishonored  in  foul  uses  ;  intellects  without 
power,  hearts  without  hope,  minds  earthly  and  devilish ;  our 
bones  full  of  the  sin  of  our  youlh,  the  heaven  revealing  our 
iniquity,  the  earth  rising  up  against  us,  the  roots  dried  up  be- 
neath, and  the  branch  cut  off  above  ;  well  for  us  only,  if,  after 
beholding  this  our  natural  face  in  a  glass,  we  desire  not  straight- 
way to  forget  what  manner  of  men  we  be. 

Herein  theie  is  at  last  somethinor,  and  too  much, 

§2.  What  room   ^       ,         ,  .        .  i    i  n 

here  for  ideaii-  for  that  short  stoppmg  mtelligcnce  and  dull  percep- 
tion of  ours  to  accomplish,  whether  in  earnest  fact, 
or  in  the  seeking  for  the  outward  image  of  beauty  : — to  undo  the 
devil's  work,  to  restore  to  the  body  the  grace  and  the  power 


sc.  I.  CH.  XIV.] 


III.  IN  MAN. 


Ill 


which  inherited  disease  has  destroyed,  to  return  tc  the  spirit  the 
purity,  and  to  the  intellect  the  grasp  that  they  had  in  Paradise. 
Now,  first  of  all,  this  work,  be  it  observed  is  in  no  respect  a  work 
of  imagination.  Wrecked  we  are,  and  nearly  all  to  pieces  ;  but 
tliat  little  good  by  which  we  are  lo  redeem  ourselves  is  to  be  got 
out  of  the  old  wreck,  beaten  about  and  full  of  sand  though  it  be ; 
and  not  out  of  that  desert  island  of  pride  on  which  the  devils 
split  first,  and  we  after  them  :  and  so  the  only  restoration  of  the 
body  that  we  can  reach  is  not  to  be  coined  out  of  our  fancies,  but 
to  be  collected  out  of  such  uninjured  and  bright  vestiges  of  the 
old  seal  as  we  can  find  and  set  together,  and  so  the  ideal  of  the 
features,  as  the  good  and  perfect  soul  is  seen  in  them,  is  not  to 
be  reached  by  imagination,  but  by  the  seeing  and  reaching  forth 
of  the  better  part  of  the  soul  to  that  of  which  it  must  first  know 
the  sweetness  and  goodness  in  itself,  before  it  can  much  desire, 
or  rightly  find,  the  signs  of  it  in  others. 

I  say  much  desire  and  rightly  find,  because  there  is  not  any 
soul  so  sunk  but  that  it  shall  in  some  measure  feel  the  impres- 
sion of  mental  beauty  in  the  human  features,  and  detest  in  others 
its  own  likeness,  and  in  itself  despise  that  which  of  itself  it  has 
made. 

Now,  of  the  ordinary  process  by  which  the  realiza-  §  3.  iiow  the 
tion  of  ideal  bodily  form  is  reached,  there  is  explana-  the  bodily^ideai 
tion  enough  in  all  treatises  on  art,  and  it  is  so  far  well  I'^ached. 
comprehended  that  I  need  not  stay  long  to  consider  it.  So  far 
as  the  sight  and  knowledge  of  the  human  form,  of  the  purest 
race,  exercised  from  infancy  constantly,  but  not  excessively  in  all 
exercises  of  dignity,  not  in  twists  and  straining  dexterities,  but  in 
natural  exercises  of  running,  casting,  or  riding  ;  practised  in  en- 
durance, not  of  extraordinary  hardship,  for  that  hardens  and 
degrades  the  body,  but  of  natural  hardship,  vicissitudes  of  winter 
and  summer,  and  cold  and  heat,  yet  in  a  climate  where  none  of 
these  are  severe  ;  surrounded  also  by  a  certain  degree  of  right 
luxury,  so  as  to  soften  and  refine  the  forms  of  strength ;  so  far 
as  the  siffht  of  all  this  could  render  the  mental  intellio^ence  of 
what  is  right  in  human  form  so  acute  as  to  be  able  to  abstract 
and  combine  from  the  best  examples  so  produced,  that  which 
was  most  perfect  in  each,  so  far  the  Greek  conceived  and  attained 
the  ideal  of  bodily  form  :  and  on  the  Greek  modes  of  attaining 


112 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  Ul 


it,  as  well  as  on  what  he  produced,  as  a  perfect  example  of  it, 
chiefly  dwell  those  writers  whose  opinions  on  this  subject  I  have 
collected ;  wholly  losing  sight  of  what  seems  to  me  the  most  im- 
portant branch  of  the  inquiry,  namely,  the  influence  for  good  or 
evil  of  the  mind  upon  the  bodily  shape,  the  wreck  of  the  mind 
itself,  and  the  modes  by  which  we  may  conceive  of  its  restora- 
tion. 

§  4  Modifica-       Now,  the  Operation  of  the  mind  upon  the  body, 
bodUy^ael^ow-        evidence  of  it  thereon,  may  be  considered  under 
of  mLd.*^  i^^^^^^^^  the  following  three  general  heads, 
of  intellect.  First,  the  operation  of  the  intellectual  powers  upon 

the  features,  in  the  fine  cutting  and  chiselling  of  them,  and  re- 
moval from  them  of  signs  of  sensuality  and  sloth,  by  which  they 
are  blunted  and  deadened,  and  substitution  of  energy  and  inten- 
sity for  vacancy  and  insipidity,  (by  which  wants  alone  the  faces  of 
many  fair  women  are  utterly  spoiled  and  rendered  valueless,)  and 
by  the  keenness  given  to  the  eye  and  fine  moulding  and  develop- 
ment to  the  brow,  of  which  effects  Sir  Charles  Bell  has  well  noted 
the  desirableness  and  opposition  to  brutal  types,  (p.  59,  third  edi- 
tion ;)  only  this  he  has  not  sufficiently  observed,  that  there  are 
certain  virtues  of  the  intellect  in  measure  inconsistent  with  each 
other,  as  perhaps  great  subtlety  with  great  comprehensiveness, 
and  high  analytical  with  high  imaginative  power,  or  that  at  least, 
if  consistent  and  compatible,  their  signs  upon  the  features  are  not 
the  same,  so  that  the  outward  form  cannot  express  both,  without 
in  a  measure  expressing  neither ;  and  so  there  are  certain  separate 
virtues  of  the  outward  form  correspondent  with  the  more  constant 
employment  or  more  prevailing  capacity  of  the  brain,  as  the 
piercing  keenness,  or  open  and  reflective  comprehensiveness  of 
the  eye  and  forehead,  and  that  all  these  virtues  of  form  are  ideal, 
only  those  the  most  so  which  are  the  signs  of  the  worthiest  powers 
of  intellect,  though  which  these  be,  we  will  not  at  present  stay  to 
inquire. 

^  „     ^,        The  second  point  to  be  considered  in  the  influence 

§  5.  Secondly,  ^  ^ 

of  the  moral  of  mind  upou  body,  is  the  mode  of  operation  and 
feelings.  conjunction  of  the  moral  feelings  on  and  with  the  in- 
tellectual powers,  and  then  their  conjoint  influence  on  the  bodily 
form.  Now,  the  operation  of  the  right  moral  feelings  on  the 
intellect  is  always  for  the  good  of  the  latter,  for  it  is  not  possible 


RC.  I.  CH.  XIV.] 


III.   IN  MAK. 


118 


that  selfishness  should  reason  rightly  in  any  respect,  but  must  be 
blind  in  its  estimation  of  the  worthiness  of  all  things,  neither 
anger,  for  that  overpowers  the  reason  or  outcries  it,  neither  sensu- 
ality, for  that  overgrows  and  chokes  it,  neither  agitation,  for  that 
has  no  time  to  compare  things  together,  neither  enmity,  for  that 
must  be  unjust,  neither  fear,  for  that  exaggerates  all  things, 
neither  cunning  and  deceit,  for  that  which  is  voluntarily  untrue 
will  soon  be  unwittingly  so :  but  the  great  reasoners  are  self- 
command,  and  trust  unagitated,  and  deep-looking  Love,  and 
Faith,  which  as  slie  is  above  Reason,  so  she  best  holds  tlie  reins 
of  it  from  her  high  seat :  so  that  they  err  grossly  wdio  think  of  the 
right  development  even  of  the  intellectual  type  as  possible,  unless 
w^e  look  to  higher  sources  of  beauty  first.  JSTevertheless,  though 
in  their  operation  upon  them  the  moral  feelings  are  thus  elevatory 
of  the  mental  faculties,  yet  in  their  conjunction  with  them  they 
seem  to  occupy,  in  their  own  fulness,  such  room  as  to  absorb  and 
overshadow  all  else,  so  that  the  simultaneous  exercise  of  both  is 
in  a  sort  impossible  ;  for  which  cause  we  occasionally  find  the 
moral  part  in  full  development  and  action,  without  corresponding 
expanding  of  the  intellect  (though  never  without  healthy  condi- 
tion of  it,)  as  in  that  of  Wordsworth, 

"  In  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  Living  God, 
Thought  was  not;" 

only  I  think  that  if  we  look  far  enough,  we  shall  find  that  it  is  not 
intelligence  itself,  but  the  immediate  act  and  effort  of  a  laborious, 
struggling,  and  imperfect  intellectual  faculty,  with  which  high 
moral  emotion  is  inconsistent ;  and  that  though  we  cannot,  while 
we  feel  deeply,  reason  shrewdly,  yet  I  doubt  if,  except  when  we 
feel  deeply,  we  can  ever  comprehend  fully ;  so  that  it  is  only  the 
climbing  and  mole-like  piercing,  and  not  the  sitting  upon  their 
central  throne,  nor  emergence  into  light,  of  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties which  the  full  heart  feeling  allows  not.  Hence,  therefore,  in 
the  indications  of  the  countenance,  they  are  only  the  hard  cut  linos, 
ana  rigid  settings,  and  wasted  hollows,  that  speak  of  past  effort 
and  painfulness  of  mental  application,  which  are  inconsistent  with 
expression  of  moral  feeling,  for  all  these  are  of  infelicitous  augury, 
but  not  the  full  and  serene  development  of  habitual  command  in 


114 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III 


the  look,  and  solemn  thought  in  the  brow,  only  these,  m  their  uni- 
son with  the  signs  of  emotion,  become  softened  and  gradually  con- 
founded  with  a  serenity  and  authority  of  nobler  origin.  But  of 
§6  What  beau  ^^^^  sweetness  which  that  higher  serenity  (of  happi- 
ty  is  bestowed  ness,)  and  the  dignity  which  that  higher  authority  (of 
Divine  law,  and  not  human  reason,)  can  and  must 
stamp  on  the  features,  it  would  be  futile  to  speak  here  at  length, 
for  I  suppose  that  both  are  acknowledged  on  all  hands,  and  that 
there  is  not  any  beauty  but  theirs  to  which  men  pay  long  obe- 
dience :  at  all  events,  if  not  by  sympathy  discovered,  it  is  not  in 
words  explicable  with  what  divine  lines  and  lights  the  exercise  of 
godliness  and  charity  will  mould  and  gild  the  hardest  and  coldest 
countenance,  neither  to  what  darkness  their  departure  will  consign 
the  loveliest.  For  there  is  not  any  virtue  the  exercise  of  which, 
even  momentarily,  will  not  impress  a  new  fairness  upon  the  fea- 
tures, neither  on  them  only,  but  on  the  whole  body,  both  the  intel- 
ligence and  the  moral  faculties  have  operation,  for  even  all  the 
movement  and  gestures,  however  slight,  are  different  in  their 
modes  according  to  the  mind  that  governs  them,  and  on  the  gen- 
tleness and  decision  of  just  feeling  there  follows  a  grace  of  action, 
and  through  continuance  of  this  a  grace  of  form,  which  by  no  dis- 
cipline may  be  taught  or  attained. 

§  7  How  the  ^^^^  third  point  to  be  considered  with  respect  to 
Boui  culture  in  the  corporeal  expression  of  mental  character  is,  that 

torferea  harm-  .  .  '    i      r    ^  ii  i- 

fully  with  the  there  IS  a  certam  period  oi  the  soul  culture  when  it 
bodily  Ideal.  j^^gj^g  interfere  with  some  of  the  characters  of 
t3^pical  beauty  belonging  to  the  bodily  frame,  the  stirring  of  the 
intellect  wearing  down  the  flesh,  and  the  moral  enthusiasm  burn- 
ing its  way  out  to  heaven,  through  the  emaciation  of  the  earthen 
vessel ;  and  that  there  is,  in  this  indication  of  subduing  of  the 
mortal  by  the  immortal  part,  an  ideal  glory  of  perhaps  a  purer 
and  higher  range  than  that  of  the  more  perfect  material  form. 
We  conceive,  I  think,  more  nobly  of  the  weak  presence  of  Paul, 
than  of  the  fair  and  ruddy  countenance  of  Daniel, 
o  m,-  .  Now,  be  it  observed  that  in  our  consideration  of 

(  8.  The  incon- 

Bistency  among  tlicsc  three  directions  of  mental  influence,  we  have 
mental  virtues  scvcral  times  been  compelled  to  stop  short  of  definite 
onfheform.  conclusioiis  owing  to  the  apparent  inconsistency  of 
certain  excellences  and  beauties  to  which  they  tend,  as,  first,  of 


I.  CH.  XIV. J 


III.   IN  MAN. 


115 


different  kinds  of  intellect  with  each  other ;  and  stcondly,  of  the 
moral  facidties  with  the  intellectual,  (and  if  we  hixd  separately  ex- 
amined the  moral  emotions,  we  should  have  found  certain  incon- 
sistencies among  them  also,)  and  again  of  the  soul  culture  gener 
ally  with  the  bodily  perfections.  Such  inconsistencies  we  should 
find  in  the  perfections  of  no  other  animal.  The  strength  or 
swiftness  of  the  dog  are  not  inconsistent  with  his  sagacity,  nor  is 
bodily  labor  in  the  ant  or  bee  destructive  of  their  acuteness  of  in- 
stinct. And  this  peculiarity  of  relation  among  the  perfections  of 
man  is  no  result  of  his  fall  or  sinfulness,  but  an  evidence  of  his 
greater  nobility,  and  of  the  goodness  of  God  towards  him.  For 
the  individuals  of  each  race  of  low^er  animals,  being  §9.  is  a  sign  o. 
not  intended  to  hold  among  each  other  those  relations  ^owids 
of  charity  which  are  the  privilege  of  humanity,  are  not 
adapted  to  each  other's  assistance,  admiration,  or  support,  by  dif- 
ferences of  power  and  function.  But  the  love  of  the  human  race 
is  increased  by  their  individual  differences,  and  the  unity  of  the 
creature,  as  before  we  saw  of  all  unity,  made  perfect  by  each  hav- 
ing something  to  bestow  and  to  receive,  bound  to  the  rest  by  a 
thousand  various  necessities  and  various  gratitudes,  humility  in 
each  rejoicing  to  admire  in  his  fellow  that  w^hich  he  finds  not  in 
himself,  and  each  being  in  some  respect  the  complement  of  his 
race.  Therefore,  in  investigating  the  signs  of  the  ideal  or  perfect 
type  of  humanity,  we  must  not  presume  on  the  singleness  of  that 
type,  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  cautiously  distinguish 
between  differences  conceivably  existing  in  a  perfect  state,  and 
differences  resulting  from  immediate  and  present  operation  of  the 
Adamite  curse.  Of  which  the  former  are  differences  that  bind, 
and  the  latter  that  separate.  For  although  we  can  suppose  the 
ideal  or  perfect  human  heart,  and  the  perfect  human  intelligence, 
equally  adapted  to  receive  every  right  sensation  and  pursue  every 
order  of  truth,  yet  as  it  is  appointed  for  some  to  be  in  authority 
and  others  in  obedience,  some  in  solitary  functions  and  others  in 
relative  ones,  some  to  receive  and  others  to  give,  some  to  teacli 
and  some  to  discover ;  and  as  all  these  varieties  of  office  are  not 
only  conceivable  as  existing  in  a  perfect  state  of  man,  but  Feeni 
almost  to  be  implied  by  it,  and  at  any  rate  cannot  be  done  away 
with  but  by  a  total  change  of  his  constitution  and  dependencies, 
of  which  the  imagination  can  take  no  hold ;  so  there  are  habitsi 


1J6  OF  VITAL  BEAUTV.  [pART  ITl 

« 

and  capacities  of  expression  induced  by  these  various  offices,  which 
admit  of  many  separate  ideals  of  equal  perfection,  according  to  the 
§  10.  Conse-  functions  of  the  creatures,  so  that  there  is  an  ideal  of 
Sou^and^diffe'r-  authority,  of  judgment,  of  aftection,  of  reason,  and  of 
ence  of  Ideals,  faith;  neither  can  any  combination  of  these  ideals  be 
attained,  not  that  the  just  judge  is  to  be  supposed  incapable  of 
affection,  nor  the  king  incapable  of  obedience,  but  as  it  is  impossi- 
ble that  any  essence  short  of  the  Divine  should  at  the  same  instant 
be  equally  receptive  of  all  emotions,  those  emotions  which,  by 
right  and  order,  have  the  most  usual  victory,  both  leave  the  stamp 
^f  their  habitual  presence  on  the  body,  and  render  the  individual 
.^ore  and  more  susceptible  of  them  in  proportion  to  the  frequency 
of  their  prevalent  recurrence ;  added  to  which  causes  of  distinctive 
character  are  to  be  taken  into  account  the  differences  of  age  and 
sex,  which,  though  seemingly  of  more  finite  influence,  cannot  be 
banished  from  any  human  conception.  David,  ruddy  and  of  a 
fair  countenance,  with  the  brook  stone  of  deliverance  in  his  hand, 
is  not  more  ideal  than  David  leaning  on  the  old  age  of  Barzillai, 
returning  chastened  to  his  kingly  home.  And  they  who  are  as  the 
mgels  of  God  in  heaven,  yet  cannot  be  conceived  as  so  assimi- 
lated that  their  difierent  experiences  and  affections  upon  earth  shall 
then  be  forgotten  and  effectless  :  the  child  taken  early  to  his  place 
cannot  be  imagined  to  wear  there  such  a  body,  nor  to  have  such 
thoughts,  as  the  glorified  apostle  who  has  finished  his  course  and 
kept  the  faith  on  earth.  And  so  whatever  perfections  and  like- 
ness of  love  we  may  attribute  to  either  the  tried  or  the  crowned 
creatures,  there  is  the  difference  of  the  stars  in  glory  among  them 
yet ;  differences  of  original  gifts,  though  not  of  occupying  till  their 
Lord  come,  different  dispensations  of  trial  and  of  trust,  of  sorrow 
and  support,  both  in  th'^ir  own  inward,  variable  hearts,  and  in  their 
positions  of  exposure  or  of  peace,  of  the  gourd  shadow  and  the 
smiting  sun,  of  calling  at  heat  of  day  or  eleventh  hour,  of  the  house 
unroofed  by  faith,  and  the  clouds  opened  by  revelation :  differences 
in  warning,  in  mercies,  in  sicknesses,  in  signs,  in  time  of  calling  to 
account ;  like  only  they  all  are  by  that  which  is  not  of  them,  but 
the  gift  of  God's  unchangeable  mercy.  "  I  will  give  unto  this 
kst  even  as  unto  thee." 

§11.  Thef#gc«5  Hence,  then,  be  it  observed,  that  what  we  must 
curse^re^lc^be  determinedly  banish  from  the  human  form  and  coun- 


so.  I.  CH.  XTV.] 


III.   IN  MAN. 


117 


tenance  in  our  seelJng  of  its  ideal,  is  not  every-  distingiiisbed 
thing  which  can  be  ultimately  traced  to  the  Adamite  immedlSe  acti^ 
fall  for  its  cause,  but  only  the  immediate  operation 
and  presence  of  the  degrading  power  of  sin.  For  there  is  not  any 
part  of  our  feeling  or  nature,  nor  can  there  be  through  eternity, 
which  shall  not  be  in  some  way  influenced  and  affected  by  the  fall, 
and  that  not  in  any  way  of  degradation,  for  the  renewing  in  the 
divinity  of  Christ  is  a  nobler  condition  than  ever  that  of  Paradise, 
and  yet  throughout  eternity  it  must  imply  and  refer  to  the  diso- 
bedience, and  the  corrupt  state  of  sin  and  death,  and  the  suffering 
of  Christ  himself,  which  can  ^ye  conceive  of  any  redeemed  soul  as 
for  an  instant  forfrettino-  or  as  rememberin<T  without  sorrow  ?  Nei- 
ther  are  the  alternations  of  joy  and  such  sorrow  as  by  us  is  incon- 
ceivable, being  only  as  it  were  a  softness  and  silence  in  the  pulse 
of  an  infinite  felicity,  inconsistent  with  the  state  even  of  the  un- 
fallen,  for  the  angels  who  rejoice  over  repentance  cannot  but  feel 
an  uncomprehended  pain  as  they  try  and  try  again  in  vain,  whe- 
ther they  may  not  warm  hard  hearts  v/ith  the  brooding  of  theii 
kind  winfi^s.    So  that  we  have  not  to  banish  from  the  ^  „       ^,  ^ 

o  §  12.  Which  lat- 

ideal  countenance  the  evidences  of  sorrow,  nor  of  ter  only  are  to 

.  .be  banished 

past  suiiermg,  nor  even  oi  past  and  conquered  sm,  from  ideal 
but  only  the  immediate  operation  of  any  evil,  or  the 
immediate  coldness  and  hollowness  of  any  good  emotion.  And 
hence  in  that  contest  before  noted,  bet  ween  the  body  and  the  soul, 
we  may  often  have  to  indicate  the  body  as  far  conquered  and  out- 
worn, and  with  signs  of  hard  struggle  and  bitter  pain  upon  it,  and 
yet  without  ever  diminishing  the  purity  of  its  ideal ;  and  because 
it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  human  imagination  to  reason  out  or 
conceive  the  countless  modifications  of  experience,  suffering,  and 
separated  feeling,  which  have  modelled  and  written  their  indelible 
images  in  various  order  upon  every  human  countenance,  so  no 
right  ideal  can  be  reached  by  any  combination  of  feature  nor  by 
any  moulding  and  melting  of  individual  beauties  together,  and 
still  less  without  model  or  example  conceived ;  but  there  is  a  per- 
fect ideal  to  be  wrought  out  of  ever]/  face  around  us  that  has  on 
its  forehead  the  writing  and  the  seal  of  the  angel  ascending  from 
the  East,*  by  the  earnest  study  and  penetration  of  the  written 
history  thereupon,  and  the  banishing  of  the  blots  and  stains,  where- 
*  Rev.  vii.  2. 


118 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[pAar  in 


in  we  still  see  in  all  that  is  human,  the  visible  and  instant  opera- 
tion of  unconquered  sin. 

1 13.  Ideal  form  Now  I  See  not  how  any  of  the  steps  of  the  argu- 
obtfiin^ed  %y^^  Hient  by  which  we  have  arrived  at  this  conclusion 
portraiture.  evaded,  and  yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  state 

anything  more  directly  opposite  to  the  usual  teaching  and  prac- 
tice of  artists.  It  is  usual  to  hear  portraiture  opposed  to  the 
pursuit  of  ideality,  and  yet  we  find  that  no  face  can  be  ideal 
which  is  not  a  portrait.  Of  this  general  principle,  however,  there 
are  certain  modifications  which  we  must  presently  state ;  let  us 
first,  however,  pursue  it  a  little  farther,  and  deduce  its  practical 
consequences. 

These  are,  first,  that  the  pursuit  of  idealism  in  humanity,  as  of 
ideahsm  in  lower  nature,  can  be  successful  only  when  followed 
through  the  most  constant,  patient,  and  humble  rendering  of 
actual  models,  accompanied  with  that  earnest  mental  as  well  as 
ocular  study  of  each,  which  can  interpret  all  that  is  written  upon 
it,  disentangle  the  hieroglyphics  of  its  sacred  history,  rend  the 
veil  of  the  bodily  temple,  and  rightly  measure  the  relations  of 
good  and  evil  contending  within  it  for  mastery,'^*  that  everything 
done  without  such  study  must  be  shallow  and  contemptible,  that 
generalization  or  combination  of  individual  character  will  end 
less  in  the  mending  than  the  losing  of  it,  and,  except  in  certain 
instances  of  which  we  shall  presently  take  note,  is  valueless  and 
vapid,  even  if  it  escape  being  painful  from  its  want  of  truth, 
which  in  these  days  it  often  in  some  measure  does,  for  we  indeed 
find  faces  about  us  with  want  enough  of  life  or  wholesome  char- 
§  14.  Instances  acter  in  them  to  justify  anything.  And  that  habit 
g^ate^  of ^  the  great  painters  of  introducing  portrait 

Ideal  Masters.  ^^^^  their  highest  works,  I  look  to,  not  as  error  in 
them,  but  as  the  very  source  and  root  of  their  superiority  in  all 
things,  for  they  were  too  great  and  too  humble  not  to  see  in  every 
face  about  them  that  which  was  above  them,  and  which  no  fan- 
cies of  theirs  could  match  nor  take  place  of,  wherefore  we  find  the 
custom  of  portraiture  constant  with  them,  both  portraiture  of 
study  and  for  purposes  of  analysis,  as  with  Leonardo ;  and  actual, 
professed,  serviceable,  hardworking  portraiture  of  the  men  of 
their  time,  as  with  Raffaelle,  and  Titian,  and  Tintoret ;  and  por- 
♦  Compare  Part  II.  Sec.  I.  Chap.  Ill  §  6. 


sc.  I.  CH.  XIV.J 


III.  IN  MAN. 


119 


tralture  of  Love,  as  with  Fra  Bartolomeo  of  Savonarola,  and 
Simon  Memmi  of  Petrarch,  and  Giotto  of  Dante,  and  Gentile 
Belhni  of  a  beloved  imagination  of  Dandolo,  and  with  Raffaelle 
constantly ;  and  portraiture  in  real  downright  necessity  of  models, 
even  in  their  noblest  works,  as  was  the  practice  of  Ghirlandajo 
perpetually,  and  Masaccio  and  Raffaelle,  and  manifestly  of  the 
men  of  highest  and  purest  ideal  purpose,  as  again,  Giotto,  and  in 
his  characteristic  monkish  heads,  Angelico,  and  John  Bellini, 
(note  especially  the  St.  Christopher  at  the  side  of  that  mighty 
picture  of  St.  Jerome,  at  Venice,)  and  so  of  all :  which  practice 
had  indeed  a  perilous  tendency  for  men  of  debased  mind,  who 
used  models  such  as  and  where  they  ou,ght  not,  as  Lippi  and  the 
corrupted  Raffaelle  ;  and  is  found  often  at  exceeding  disadvantage 
among  men  who  looked  not  at  their  models  with  intellectual  or 
loving  penetration,  but  took  the  outside  of  them,  or  perhaps  took 
the  evil  and  left  the  good,  as  Titian  in  that  academy  study  at 
Venice  which  is  called  a  St.  John,  and  all  workers  whatsoever 
that  I  know  of,  after  Raffaelle's  time,  as  Guido  and  the  Caracci, 
and  such  others  ;  but  it  is  nevertheless  the  necessary  and  sterling 
basis  of  all  ideal  art,  neither  has  any  great  man  ever  been  able  to 
do  without  it,  nor  dreamed  of  doing  without  it  even  to  the  close 
of  his  days. 

And  therefore  there  is  not  any  greater  sign  of  the  §  15.  Evil  re- 
utter  want  of  vitality  and  hopefulness  in  the  schools  sUe^pmcticeTn 
of  the  present  day  than  that  unhappy  prettiness  and  ^^^^^^^ 
sameness  under  which  they  mask,  or  rather  for  which  they  barter, 
in  their  lentile  thirst,  all  the  birthright  and  power  of  nature, 
which  prettiness,  wrought  out  and  spun  fine  in  the  study,  out  of 
empty  heads,  till  it  hardly  betters  the  blocks  on  which  dresses 
and  hair  are  tried  in  barbers'  windows  and  milliners'  books, 
cannot  but  be  revolting  to  any  man  who  has  his  eyes,  even  in  a 
measure,  open  to  the  divinity  of  the  immortal  seal  on  the  common 
features  that  he  meets  in  the  highways  and  hedges  hourly  and 
momentarily,  outreaching  all  efforts  of  conception  as  all  power  of 
realization,  were  it  Raffaelle's  three  times  over,  even  when  the 
glory  of  the  wedding  garment  is  not  there. 

So  far,  then,  of  the  use  of  the  model  and  the  pre- 

f  '     '       11  n  1       n  •   -,  ^  ^      §  16.  The  rigW 

clousness  01  it  in  all  art,  from  the  highest  to  the  use  of  the  mo 
lowest.    But  the  use  of  the  model  is  not  all.  It 


120 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III. 


must  be  used  in  a  certain  way,  and  on  this  choice  of  right  or 
wrong  way  all  our  ends  are  at  stake,  for  the  art,  which  is  of  no 
power  without  the  model,  is  of  pernicious  and  evil  power  if  the 
model  be  wrongly  used.  What  the  right  use  is,  has  been  at  least 
established,  if  not  fully  explained,  in  the  argument  by  which  we 
arrived  at  the  general  principle. 

The  right  ideal  is  to  be  reached,  we  have  asserted,  only  by  the 
banishment  of  the  immediate  signs  of  sin  upon  the  countenance 
and  body.  How,  therefore,  are  the  signs  of  sin  to  be  known  and 
separated  ? 

No  intellectual  operation  is  here  of  any  avail.  There  is  not 
any  reasoning  by  which  the  evidences  of  depravity  are  to  be 
traced  in  movements  of  muscle  or  forms  of  feature ;  there  is  not 
any  knowledge,  nor  experience,  nor  diligence  of  comparison  that 
can  be  of  avail.  Here,  as  throughout  the  operation  of  the 
theoretic  faculty,  the  perception  is  altogether  moral,  an  instinc- 
,x.      tive  love  and  cling^ino-  to  the  lines  of  lic^ht.  Nothing 

§  17.  Ideal  form  t)  o  & 

to  be  reached  but  love  Can  read  the  letters,  nothing  but  sympathy 
only  by  love,  ^g^^^,]-^  sound,  there  is  no  pure  passion  that  can  be 
understood  or  painted  except  by  pureness  of  heart;  the  foul  or 
blunt  feeling  will  see  itself  in  everything,  and  set  down  blas- 
phemies ;  it  will  see  Beelzebub  in  the  casting  out  of  devils,  it  will 
find  its  god  of  flies  in  every  alabaster  box  of  precious  ointment. 
The  indignation  of  zeal  towards  God  (nemesis)  it  will  take  for 
anger  against  man,  faith  and  veneration  it  will  miss  of,  as  not 
comprehending,  charity  it  will  turn  into  lust,  compassion  into 
pride,  every  virtue  it  will  go  over  against,  like  Shimei,  casting 
dust.  But  the  right  Christian  mind  will  in  like  manner  find  its 
own  image  wherever  it  exists,  it  will  seek  for  what  it  loves,  and 
draw  it  out  of  all  dens  and  caves,  and  it  will  believe  in  its  being, 
often  when  it  cannot  see  it,  and  always  turn  away  its  eyes  from 
beholding  vanity ;  and  so  it  will  lie  lovingly  over  all  the  faults 
and  rough  places  of  the  human  heart,  as  the  snow  from  heaven 
does  over  the  hard,  and  black,  and  broken  mountain  rocks,  fol- 
;  lowing  their  forms  truly,  and  yet  catching  light  for  them  to  make 
them  fair,  and  that  must  be  a  steep  and  unkindly  crag  indeed 
which  it  cannot  cover. 

§  18.  Practical  Now  of  this  Spirit  there  will  always  be  little 
dudbie!^^        enough  in  the  world,  and  it  cannot  be  given  nor 


sc.  1.  CH.  XIV.J 


III.  IN  MAN. 


121 


taught  by  men,  and  so  it  is  of  little  use  to  insist  on  it  farther, 
only  I  may  note  some  practical  points  respecting  the  ideal  treat- 
ment of  human  form,  which  may  be  of  use  in  these  thought- 
less days.  There  is  not  the  face,  I  have  said,  which  the  painter 
may  not  make  ideal  if  he  choose,  but  that  subtile  feeling  which 
shall  find  out  all  of  good  that  there  is  in  any  given  coiuite- 
nance  is  not,  except  by  concern  for  other  things  than  art,  to  be 
acquired.  But  certain  broad  indications  of  evil  there  are  which 
the  bluntest  f  -^eling  may  perceive,  and  which  the  habit  of  distin- 
guishing and  casting  out  would  both  ennoble  the  schools  of  art, 
and  lead  in  time  to  greater  acuteness  of  perception  with  respect 
to  the  less  explicable  characters  of  soul  beauty. 

Those  siofns  of  evil  which  are  commonly  most  man-  ,^ 

^  ...         §  19.  Expres- 

ifest  on  the  human  features  are  rouo-hly  divisible  into  sions  chiefly 

,  .    ,  .  •  1        r  T  n    destructive  of 

these  tour  lands,  the  signs  oi  pride,  oi  sensuality,  oi   ideal  character, 
fear,  and  of  cruelty.    Any  one  of  which  will  destroy 
the  ideal  character  of  the  countenance  and  body. 

Now  of  these,  the  first,  pride,  is  perhaps  the  most  destructive 
of  all  the  four,  seeing  it  is  the  undermost  and  original  story  of  all 
sin ;  and  it  is  base  also  from  the  necessary  foolishness  of  it,  be- 
cause at  its  best,  that  is  when  grounded  on  a  just  estimation  of 
Qur  own  elevation  or  superiority  above  certain  others,  it  cannot 
but  imply  that  our  eyes  look  downward  only,  and  have  never  been 
raised  above  our  own  measure,  for  there  is  not  the  man  so  lofty 
in  his  standing  nor  capacity  but  he  must  be  humble  in  thinking 
of  the  cloud  habitation  and  far  sight  of  the  angelic  intelligences 
above  him,  and  in  perceiving  what  infinity  there  is  of  things  he 
cannot  know  nor  even  reach  unto,  as  it  stands  compared  with  that 
little  body  of  things  he  can  reach,  and  of  which  nevertheless  he 
can  altogether  understand  not  one ;  not  to  speak  of  that  wicked 
and  fond  attributing  of  such  excellency  as  he  may  have  to  him- 
self, and  thinking  of  it  as  his  own  getting,  which  is  the  real  es- 
sence and  criminality  of  pride,  nor  of  those  viler  forms  of  it, 
founded  on  false  estimation  of  things  beneath  us  and  iiration':iI 
contemning  of  them  :  but  taken  at  its  best,  it  is  still  base  to  that 
degree  that  there  is  no  grandeur  of  feature  which  it  cannot  destroy 
and  make  despicable,  so  that  the  first  step  towards  the  ennobling 
of  any  face  is  ihe  ridding  it  of  its  vanity ;  to  which  aim  there  can- 

VOL.  II.  6 


122 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  in 


}  20   Portrai  anything  more  contrary  than  that  principle  of 

hire  ancient  portraiture  which  prevails  with  us  in  these  days, 
whose  end  seems  to  be  the  expression  of  vanity 
throughout,  in  face  and  in  all  circumstances  of  accompaniment, 
tending  constantly  to  insolence  of  attitude,  and  levity  and  haugh- 
tiness of  expression,  and  worked  out  farther  in  mean  accompani- 
ments of  worldly  splendor  and  possession,  together  with  hints  or 
proclamations  of  what  the  person  has  done  or  supposes  himself 
to  have  done,  which,  if  known,  it  is  gratuitous  in  the  portrait  to 
exhibit,  and  if  unknown,  it  is  insolent  in  the  portrait  to  proclaim ; 
whence  has  arisen  such  a  school  of  portraiture  as  must  make  the 
people  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  shame  of  their  descendants, 
and  the  butt  of  all  time.  To  which  practices  are  to  be  opposed 
both  the  glorious  severity  of  Holbein,  and  the  mighty  and  simple 
modesty  of  Raffaelle,  Titian,  Giorgione,  and  Tintoret,  with  whom 
armor  does  not  constitute  the  warrior,  neither  silk  the  dame.  And 
from  what  feeling  the  dignity  of  that  protraiture  arose  is  best 
traceable  at  Venice,  where  we  find  their  victorious  doges  painted 
.neither  in  the  toil  of  battle  nor  the  triumph  of  return,  nor  set  forth 
with  thrones  and  curtains  of  state,  but  kneeling  always  crownless, 
and  returning  thanks  to  God  for  his  help,  or  as  priests,  intercedmg 
for  the  nation  in  its  afliiction.  Which  feeling  and  its  results  liave 
been  so  well  traced  out  by  Rio,'^  that  I  need  not  speak  of  it 
farther. 

§  21.  Secondly,  '^^'^^t  secoud  destroyer  of  ideal  form,  the  appear- 
Sensuaiity.  ^^^^^  seusual  character,  though  not  less  fatal  in  its 
operation  on  modern  art,  is  more  difficult  to  trace,  owing  to  its 
peculiar  subtlety.  For  it  is  not  possible  to  say  by  what  minute 
differences  the  right  conception  of  the  human  form  is  separated 
from  that  which  is  luscious  and  foul :  for  the  root  of  all  is  in  the 
love  and  seeking  of  the  painter,  who,  if  of  impure  and  feeble  mind, 
will  cover  ail  that  he  touches  with  clay  staining,  as  Bandinelli  puts 
a  foul  scent  of  human  flesh  about  his  marble  Christ,  and  as  many 
whom  I  will  not  here  name,  among  moderns ;  but  if  of  mighty 
mind  or  pure,  may  pass  through  all  places  of  foulness,  and  none 
will  stay  upon  him,  as  Michael  Angelo,  or  he  will  baptize  all 
things  and  wash  them  with  pure  water,  as  our  ov/n  Stothard. 
Now,  so  far  as  this  power  is  dependent  on  the  seeking  of  the  ar 
♦  De  la  Poesie  Chretienne.    Forme  de  I'Art.  Cliap.  VIII. 


dO.  I.  CH.  XIV.] 


III.  IN  MAW. 


128 


tist,  and  is  only  to  be  seen  in  the  work  of  good  and  spiritually- 
minded  men,  it  is  vain  to  attempt  to  teach  or  illustrate  it,  neither 
is  it  here  the  place  to  take  note  of  the  way  in  which  it  belongs  to 
the  representation  of  the  mental  image  of  things,  instead  of  things 
themselves,  of  which  we  are  to  speak  in  treating  of  the  imagina- 
tion :  but  thus  much  may  here  be  noted  of  broad,  ^  „^ 

'  ^  .     .     '   §  22.  How  con 

practical  principle,  that  the  purity  of  flesh  paintino^  nected  with  im- 

j  J    •  -J       1.1  4.1      •  +       -4.     purity  of  color. 

depends  m  very  considerable  measure  on  the  intensity 
and  warmth  of  its  color.  For  if  it  be  opaque,  and  clay  cold,  and 
colorless,  and  devoid  of  all  the  radiance  and  value  of  flesh,  the  lines 
of  its  true  beauty,  being  severe  and  firm,  will  become  so  hard  in 
the  loss  of  the  glow  and  gradation  by  which  nature  illustrates 
them,  that  the  painter  will  be  compelled  to  sacrifice  them  for  a 
luscious  fulness  and  roundness,  in  order  to  give  the  conception  of 
flesh ;  which,  being  done,  destroys  ideality  of  form  as  of  color,  and 
gives  all  over  to  lasciviousness  of  surface ;  showing  also  that  the 
painter  sought  for  this,  and  this  only,  since  otherwise  he  had  not 
taken  a  subject  in  v/hich  he  knew  himself  compelled  to  surrender 
all  sources  of  dignity.  Whereas,  right  splendor  of  color  both 
bears  out  a  nobler  severity  of  form,  and  is  in  itself  purifying  and 
cleansing,  like  fire,  furnishing  also  to  the  painter  an  excuse  for  the 
choice  of  his  subject,  seeing  that  he  may  be  supposed  as  not  hav- 
ing painted  it  but  in  the  admiration  of  its  abstract  glory  of  color 
and  form,  and  with  no  unworthv  seekino;.    But  the 

,        ,    ^       ,     ,      .  "        1     ^  Ml  .  §  23.  And  pre- 

mere  power  oi  perfect  and  glowing  color  will  in  some  vented  by  its 
sort  redeem  even  a  debased  tendency  of  mind  itself, 
as  eminently  the  case  with  Titian,  who,  though  of  little  •  feeling, 
and  often  treating  base  subjects,  or  elevated  subjects  basely,  as  in 
the  disgusting  Magdalen  of  the  Pitti  palace,  and  that  of  the  Bar- 
berigo  at  Venice,  yet  redeems  all  by  his  glory  of  hue,  so  that  he 
cannot  paint  altogether  coarsely;  and  with  Giorgione,  who  had 
nobler  and  more  serious  intellect,  the  sense  of  nudity  is  utterly 
lost,  and  there  is  no  need  nor  desire  of  concealment  any  more,  but 
his  naked  figures  move  among  the  trees  like  fiery  pillars,  and  lie 
on  the  2rrass  like  flakes  of  sunshine.^'    With  the  re- 

.  .  §  24.    Or  by 

ligious  painters  on  the  other  hand,  such  nudity  as  they  severity  of 
were  compelled  to  treat  is  redeemed  as  much  by  se- 
verity  of  form  and  hardness  of  line  as  by  color,  so  that  generally 
*  As  in  the  noble  Louvre  picture. 


124 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  nr. 


their  draped  figures  are  preferable,  as  in  tlie  Francia  of  our  own 
gallery.  But  these,  with  Michael  Angelo  and  the  Venetians,  ex- 
cept Titian,  form  a  great  group,  pure  in  sight  and  aim,  between 
which  and  all  other  schools  by  which  the  nude  has  been  treated, 
there  is  a  gulf  fixed,  and  all  the  rest,  compared  with  them,  seem 
striving  how  best  to  illustrate  that  of  Spenser. 

"  Of  all  God's  works,  which  doe  this  worlde  adorn, 
There  is  no  one  more  iaire,  and  excellent 
Than  is  man's  body  both  for  power  and  forme 
Whiles  it  is  kept  in  sober  government. 
But  none  than  it  more  foul  and  indecent 
Dijstempered  through  misrule  and  passions  bace." 

§25  Bo^ieesof  these  last,  however,  with  whom  ideality  is  lost, 
descent  in  this  there  are  some  worthier  than  others,  accordinor  to  that 

respect :  liu-  p      -i        i  i  i  i 

beiis,  Correg-  measure  01  color  they  reach,  and  power  they  possess, 
gio,  an    m  o.  mucli  may  be  forgiven  to  Rubens,  (as  to  our 

own  Etty,)  less,  as  I  think,  to  Correggio,  who  with  less  apparent 
and  evident  coarseness  has  more  of  inherent  sensuality,  wrought 
out  with  attractive  and  luscious  refinement,  and  that  alike  in  all 
subjects,  as  in  the  Madonna  of  the  Incoronazione,  over  the  high 
altar  of  San  Giovanni  at  Parma,  of  which  the  head  and  upper 
portion  of  the  figure,  now  preserved  in  the  library,  might  serve 
as  a  model  of  attitude  and  expression  to  a  ballet  figurante  :^  and 
again  in  the  lascivious  St.  Catherine  of  the  Giorno,  and  in  the 
Charioted  Diana,  (both  at  Parma,)  not  to  name  any  of  his  works 
of  aim  more  definitely  evil.  Beneath  which  again  will  fall  the 
works  devoid  alike  of  art  and  decency,  as  that  Susannah  of  Guido, 
in  our  own  gallery,  and  so  we  may  descend  to  the  absolute  clay 
of  the  moderns,  only  noticing  in  all  how  much  of  what  is  evil 
and  base  in  subject  or  tendency,  is  redeemed  by  what  is  pure  and 
right  in  hue,  so  that  I  do  not  assert  that  the  purpose  and  object 
of  many  of  the  grander  painters  of  the  nude,  as  Titian  for  in- 
stance, was  always  elevated,  but  only  that  we,  who  cannot  paint 
§  26.  And  mod-  ^^^^  lamp  of  fire  Avithin  the  earthen  pitcher,  must  take 
ern  art.  other  wcapous  in  our  left  hands.    And  it  is  to  be 

noted,  also,  that  in  climates  where  the  body  can  be  more  openly 

*  The  Madonna  turns  her  back  to  Christ,  and  bends  her  head  over  her 
shoulder  to  receive  the  crown,  the  arms  being  folded  with  studieJ  grace  over 
the  bosom. 


so.  I.  CH.  XIV.] 


III.   IN  MAN. 


125 


and  frequently  visited  by  snn  and  weather,  the  nude  both  comes 
to  be  regarded  in  a  way  more  grand  and  pure,  as  necessarily 
awakening  no  ideas  of  base  kind,  (as  pre-eminently  with  the 
Greeks,)  and  also  from  that  exposure  receives  a  firmness  and 
sunny  elasticity  very  diflPerent  from  the  silky  softness  of  the 
clothed  nations  of  the  north,  where  every  model  necessarily  looks 
as  if  accidentally  undressed  ;  and  hence  from  the  very  fear  and 
doubt  with  which  we  approach  the  nude,  it  becomes  expressive 
of  evil,  and  for  that  daring  frankness  of  the  old  men,  which  sel- 
dom missed  of  human  grandeur,  even  when  it  failed  of  holy  feel- 
ing, we  have  substituted  a  mean,  carpeted,  gauze-veiled,  mincing 
sensuality  of  curls  and  crisping  pins,  out  of  which  I  believe  no- 
thing can  come  but  moral  enervation  and  mental  paralysis. 
Respecting:  those  two  other  vices  of  the  human 

^  ^       .  .  .  §  27.  Thirdly, 

face,  the  expressions  of  fear  and  ferocity,  there  is  less  f^^^^^^^^^^^ 
to  be  noted,  as  they  only  occasionally  enter  into  the  distinguished^^ 
conception  of  character;  only  it  is  most  necessary  to  fro^^^^*^- 
make  careful  distinction  between  the  conception  of  power,  destruc 
tiveness,  or  majesty,  in  matter,  influence,  or  agent,  and  the  actual 
fear  of  any  of  these,  for  it  is  possible  to  conceive  of  terribleness, 
without  being  in  a  position  obnoxious  to  the  danger  of  it,  and  so 
without  fear,  and  the  feeling  arising  from  this  contemplation  of 
dreadfulness,  ourselves  being  in  safety,  as  of  a  stormy  sea  from  the 
shore,  is  properly  termed  awe,  and  is  a  most  noble  passion ; 
whereas  fear,  mortal  and  extreme,  may  be  felt  respecting  things 
ignoble,  as  the  falling  froui  a  window,  and  without  any  conception 
of  terribleness  or  majesty  in  the  thing,  or  the  accident  dreaded ; 
and  even  when  fear  is  felt  respecting  things  sublime,  as  thunder, 
or  storm  of  battle,  yet  the  tendency  of  it  is  to  destroy  all  power 
of  contemplation  of  their  majesty,  and  to  freeze  and  shrink  all  the 
intellect  into  a  shaking  heap  of  clay,  for  absolute  acute  fear  is  of 
the  same  unworthiness  and  contempt  from  whatever  source  it  arise, 
and  degrades  the  mind  and  the  outward  bearing  of  the  body  alike, 
even  though  it  be  among  hail  of  heaven  and  fire  running  along  the 
ground.  And  so  among  the  children  of  God,  while  g  Hoiyfear 
there  is  always  that  fearful  and  bowed  apprehension  ^^^m  human 
of  his  majesty,  and  that  sacred  dread  of  all  offence  to 
him,  which  is  called  the  fear  of  God,  yet  of  real  and  essential  fear 
there  is  not  any  but  clinging  of  confidence  to  him,  as  their  Rock, 


126 


OF  VITAL  BEAUTY. 


[part  in. 


Fortress,  and  Deliverer,  and  perfect  love,  and  casting  out  of  feaX; 
so  that  ii  is  not  possible  that  while  the  mind  is  rightly  bent  on 
him,  there  should  be  dread  of  anything  either  earthly  or  super- 
natural, and  the  more  dreadful  seems  the  height  of  his  majesty, 
the  less  fear  they  feel  that  dwell  in  the  shadow  of  it,  Of  whom 
shall  I  be  afraid  ?")  so  that  they  are  as  David  was,  devoted  to  his 
fear ;  whereas,  on  the  other  hand,  those  who,  if  they  m.ay  help  it, 
never  conceive  of  God,  but  thrust  away  all  thought  and  memory 
of  him,  and  in  his  real  terribleness  and  omnipresence  fear  him  not 
nor  know  him,  yet  are  of  real,  acute,  piercing,  and  ignoble  fear, 
haunted  for  evermore ;  fear  inconceiving  and  desperate  that  calls 
to  the  rocks,  and  hides  in  the  dust ;  and  hence  the  peculiar  base- 
ness of  the  expression  of  terror,  a  baseness  attributed  to  it  in  all 
times,  and  among  all  nations,  as  of  a  passion  atheistical,  brutal, 
§  29  Ferocity  ^^^^  profauc.  So  also,  it  is  always  joined  with  fe- 
is  joined  always  rocity,  whicli  is  of  all  passions  the  least  human;  for 

with  fear.    Its  i    i     •        xi  •  t 

unpardonable-  01  sensual  dcsires  there  IS  license  to  men,  as  neces- 
sity ;  and  of  vanity  there  is  intellectual  cause,  so  that 
when  seen  in  a  brute  it  is  pleasant,  and  a  sign  of  good  wit ;  and 
of  fear  there  is  at  times  necessity  and  excuse,  as  being  allowed  for 
prevention  of  harm  ;  but  of  ferocity  there  is  no  excuse  nor  pallia- 
tion, but  it  is  pure  essence  of  tiger  and  demon,  and  it  casts  on  the 
human  face  the  paleness  alike  of  the  horse  of  Death,  and  the 
ashes  of  hell. 

§  30.  Such  ex-  Wherefore,  of  all  subjects  that  can  be  admitted  to 
L^ugiirby  ^^""^  sight,  the  expressions  of  fear  and  ferocity  are  tho 
painters  power-     ^gj-  f^^j  r^^^^  dctestablc,  and  so  there  is  in  them  I 

less  and  impi-  \  .  r         •  - 

ous.  know  not  what  sympathetic  attractiveness  for  mmds 

cowardly  and  base,  as  the  vulgar  of  most  nations,  and  forasmuch 
as  they  are  easily  rendered  by  men  v/ho  can  render  nothing  else, 
they  are  often  trusted  in  by  the  herd  of  painters  incapable  and 
profane,  as  in  that  monstrous  abortion  of  the  first  room  of  the 
Louvre,  called  the  Deluge,  whose  subject  is  pure,  acute,  mortal 
fear ;  and  so  generally  the  senseless  horrors  of  tlie  modern  French 
schools,  spawn  of  the  guillotine  :  also  there  is  not  a  greater  test 
of  grandeur  or  meanness  of  mind  than  the  expressions  it  will  seek 
for  and  develop  in  the  features  and  forms  of  men  in  fierce  strife, 
whether  determination  and  devotion,  and  all  the  other  attributes 
of  that  unselfishness  which  constitutes  heroism,  as  in  the  warrior 


sc.  I.  CH.  XIV.] 


III.   IN  MAN. 


127 


of  Agasias  ;  and  distress  not  agitated  nor  unworthy,  though  mor- 
tal, as  in  the  Dying  Gladiator,  or  brutal  ferocity  and  butchered 
agony,  of  which  the  lowest  and  least  palliated  examples  are  thos3 
battles  of  Salvator  Rosa,  which  none  but  a  man,  base-born  and 
thief-bred,  could  have  dwelt  upon  for  an  instant  without  sickening, 
of  which  I  will  only  name  that  example  in  the  Pitti  palace,  wherein 
the  chief  figure  in  the  foreground  is  a  man  with  his  arm  cut  off  at 
the  shoulder,  run  through  the  other  hand  into  the  breast  with  a 
lance."*  And  manifold  instances  of  the  same  feeling  are  to  be 
found  in  the  repainting  of  the  various  representations  of  the  In- 
ferno, so  common  through  Italy,  more  especially  that  of  Orcagna's 
in  the  Campo  Santo,  wherein  the  few  figures  near  the  top  that  yet 
remain  untouched  are  grand  in  their  severe  drawing  and  expres- 
sions of  enduring  despair,  while  those  below,  repainted  by  Solaz- 
zino,  depend  for  their  expressiveness  upon  torrents  of  blood  ;  so 
in  the  Inferno  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  and  of  the  Arena  chapel, 
not  to  speak  of  the  horrible  images  of  the  Passion,  by  which  vul- 
gar Romanism  has  always  striven  to  excite  the  languid  sympathies 
of  its  untaught  flocks.  Of  which  foulness  let  us  reason  no  farther, 
the  very  image  and  memory  of  them  being  pollution,  only  noticing 
this,  that  there  has  always  been  a  morbid  tendency  in  Romanism 
towards  the  contemplation  of  bodily  pain,  ov:ing  to  the  attribution 
of  saving  power  to  it,  which,  like  every  other  moral  error,  has 
been  of  fatal  effect  in  art,  leaving  not  altogether  without  the  stain 
and  blame  of  it,  even  the  highest  of  the  pure  Romanist  painters ; 
as  Fra  Angelico,  for  instance,  who,  in  his  Passion  subjects,  always 
insists  weakly  on  the  bodily  torture,  and  is  unsparing  of  blood ; 
and  Giotto,  though  his  treatment  is  usually  grander,  as  in  that 
Crucifixion  over  the  door  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Marks,  vdiere  the 
blood  is  hardly  actual,  but  issues  from  the  feet  in  a  typical  and 
conventional  form,  and  becomes  a  crimson  cord  which  is  twined 
strangely  beneath  about  a  skull ;  only  that  which  these  holy  men 
did  to  enhance,  even  though  in  their  means  mistaken,  the  impres- 
sion and  power  of  the  sufferings  of  Christ,  or  of  his  saints,  is 

*  Compare  Michelet,  (Du  Pretre,  de  la  Femme,  dc  la  Famillc,)  Chap.  III. 
note.  He  uses  language  too  violent  to  be  quoted  ;  but  excuses  Salvator  by 
reference  to  the  savage  character  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  That  this  excuse 
has  no  ^/aHdity  may  be  proved  by  com})aring  the  painter'sj  treatment  of  other 
subjects.    See  Sec.  II.  Chap.  III.  §  19,  note. 


\ 


128  OF  VITAL  BEAUTF.  [PART  Ul. 

always  in  a  measure  noble,  and  to  be  distinguished  with  all  reve- 
rence from  tlie  abominations  of  tlie  irreligious  painters  following, 
as  of  Camillo  Procaccini,  in  one  of  his  martyrdoms  in  the  Gallery 
of  the  Brera,  at  Milan,  and  other  such,  whose  names  may  be  well 
spared  to  the  reader. 

§31.  Of  passion  These,  then,  are  the  four  passions  whose  presence 
generally.  (degree  on  the  human  face  is  degradation.  But 

of  all  passion  it  is  to  be  generally  observed,  that  it  becomes  igno- 
ble either  when  entertained  respecting  unworthy  objects,  and 
therefore  shallow  or  unjustifiable,  or  when  of  impious  violence, 
and  so  destructive*  of  human  dignity.  Thus  grief  is  noble  or  the 
reverse,  according  to  the  dignity  and  worthiness^  of  the  object 
lamented,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  mind  enduring  it.  The  sorrow 
of  mortified  vanity  or  avarice  is  simply  disgusting,  even  that  of 
bereaved  affection  may  be  base  if  selfish  and  unrestrained.  All 
grief  that  convulses  the  features  is  ignoble,  because  it  is  commonly 
shallow  and  certainly  temporary,  as  in  children,  though  in  the 
shock  and  shiver  of  a  strong  man's  features  under  sudden  and 
violent  grief  there  may  be  something  of  sublime.  The  grief  of 
Guercino's  Hagar,  in  the  Brera  gallery  at  Milan,  is  partly  despic- 
able, partly  disgusting,  partly  ridiculous  ;  it  is  not  the  grief  of  the 
injured  Egyptian,  driven  forth  into  the  desert  with  the  destiny  of 
a  nation  in  her  heart,  but  of  a  servant  of  all  work,  turned  away 
for  stealino;  tea  and  suo-ar.    Common  painters  for2:et 

$  32.  It  18  never  ^  ^  -r^  & 

to  be  for  itself  that  passioii  is  not  absolutely  and  in  itself  ffreat  or 

exhibited— at        .  .  ^     -  .  i  i  r-i 

le^^t  on  the  Violent,  but  only  m  proportion  to  the  weakness  of  the 
'^^^  mind  it  has  to  deal  with ;  and  that  in  exaofCferatiniv 

its  outward  signs,  they  are  not  exalting  the  passion,  but  evaporat- 
ing the  hero."^'  T]iey  think  too  much  of  passions  as  always  the 
same  in  their  nature,  forgetting  that  the  love  of  Achilles  is  dif- 
ferent from  the  love  of  Paris,  and  of  Alcestis  from  that  of  Laoda- 
mia.  Tlie  use  and  value  of  passion  is  not  as  a  subject  in  con- 
templation in  itself,  but  as  it  breaks  up  the  fountains  of  the  great 
deep  of  the  human  mind,  or  displays  its  mightiness  and  ribbed 
majesty,  as  mountains  are  seen  in  their  stability  best  among  the 
coil  of  clouds ;  whence,  in  fine,  I  think  it  is  to  be  held  that  all 

♦  "  The  fire,  that  mounts  the  liquor,  till  it  run  o'er 
In  seeming  to  augment  it,  wastes  it." 

Henry  Vlll. 


sc.  I.  CH.  XI V.J 


III.   OF  MAN. 


129 


passion  wliicli  attains  oyerwlielming  power,  so  that  it  is  not  as 
resisting,  but  as  conquered,  that  the  creature  is  contemplated,  is 
unfit  for  high  art,  and  destructive  of  the  ideal  character  of  the 
countenance  :  and  in  this  respect,  I  cannot  but  hold  Raffaelle  to 
have  erred  in  his  endeavor  to  express  passion  of  such  acuteness  in 
the  human  face  ;  as  in  the  fragment  of  the  Massacre  of  the  Inno- 
cents in  our  own  gallery,  (wherein,  repainted  though  it  be,  I  sup- 
pose the  purpose  of  the  master  is  yet  to  be  understood,)  for  if 
such  subjects  are  to  be  represented  at  all,  their  entire  expression 
may  be  given  without  degrading  the  face,  as  we  shall  presently 
see  done  with  unspeakable  power  by  Tintoret,'^  and  I  think  that 
all  subjects  of  the  kind,  all  human  misery,  slaughter,  famine, 
plague,  peril,  and  crime,  are  better  in  the  main  avoided,  as  of  un- 
profitable and  hardening  influence,  unless  so  far  as  out  of  the  suf- 
fering, hinted  rather  than  expressed,  we  may  raise  into  nobler 
relief  the  eternal  enduring  of  fortitude  and  affection,  of  mercy 
and  self-devotion,  or  when,  as  by  the  threshing-floor  of  Ornan, 
and  by  the  cave  of  Lazarus,  the  angel  of  the  Lord  is  to  be  seen 
in  the  chastisement,  and  his  love  to  be  manifested  to  the  despair 
of  men. 

Thus,  then,  we  have  in  some  sort  enumerated  those  §  33  Recapitu- 
evil  signs  which  are  most  necessary  to  be  shunned  in  ^^^i^^- 
the  seeking  of  ideal  beauty,f  though  it  is  not  the  knowledge  of 
them,  but  the  dread  and  hatred  of  them,  which  will  eftectually  aid 
the  pamter ;  as  on  the  other  hand  it  is  not  by  mere  admission  of 
(lie  loveliness  of  good  and  holy  expression  that  its  subtile  charac- 
ters are  to  be  traced.  Raffaelle  himself,  questioned  on  this  sub- 
ject, made  doubtful  answer ;  he  probably  could  not  trace  through 
what  early  teaching,  or  by  what  dies  of  emotion  the  image  had 
been  sealed  upon  his  heart.  Our  own  Bacon,  who  well  saw  the 
impossibility  of  reaching  it  by  the  combination  of  many  separate 
beauties,  yet  explains  not  the  nature  of  that  "  kind  of  felicity"  to 
which  he  attributes  success.    I  suppose  those  who  have  conceived 

*  Sect.  II.  Chap.  III.  §  22. 

•f  Let  it  be  observed  that  it  is  always  of  beauty,  not  of  human  character  m 
its  lower  and  criminal  modifications,  that  we  have  been  speaking.  That  va- 
riety of  character,  therefore,  which  we  have  affirmed  to  be  necessary,  is  the 
variety  of  Giotto  and  Anselico,  not  of  Hogarth.  W^orks  concerned  with  tho 
exhiDilion  of  general  character,  are  to  be  spoken  of  m  the  consideration  of 
Ideas  of  Relation. 

6^ 


130 


OF  VITLL  BEAUTY. 


[part  III 


and  wrought  tlie  loveliest  things,  have  done  so  by  no  theorizing, 
but  in  simple  labor  of  love,  and  could  not,  if  put  to  a  bar  of  ra- 
tionalism, defend  all  points  of  what  they  had  done,  but  painted 
it  in  their  own  delight,  and  to  the  delight  of  all  besides,  only  al- 
ways with  that  respect  of  conscience  and  "  fear  of  swerving  from 
that  which  is  right,  which  maketh  diligent  observers  of  circum- 
stances the  loose  regard  whereof  is  the  nurse  of  vulgar  folly,  no 
less  than  Solomon's  attention  thereunto  was  of  natural  further- 
ances the  most  effectual  to  make  him  eminent  above  others,  for 
he  gave  good  heed,  and  pierced  everything  to  the  very  ground."* 
With  which  good  heed,  and  watching  of  the  instants  when  men 
feel  warmly  and  rightly,  as  the  Indians  do  for  the  diamond  in  theii 
washing  of  sand,  and  that  with  the  desire  and  hope  of  finding  true 
good  in  men,  and  not  with  the  ready  vanity  that  sets  itself  to  fic- 
tion instantly,  and  carries  its  potter's  wheel  about  with  it  always, 
(off  which  there  will  come  only  clay  vessels  of  regular  shape  after 
all,)  instead  of  the  pure  mirror  that  can  show  the  seraph  standing 
by  the  human  body — standing  as  signal  to  the  heavenly  land  :f 
with  this  heed  and  this  charity,  there  are  none  of  us  that  may  not 
bring  down  that  lamp  upon  his  path  of  which  Spenser  sang  • 

"  That  beauty  is  not,  as  fond  men  misdeem 
An  outward  show  ot  things,  that  only  seem ; 
But  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  light  proceeds,  which  kindleth  lover's  fire, 
Shall  never  be  extinguished  nor  decay. 
But  when  the  vital  spirits  do  expire, 
Unto  her  native  planet  shall  retire, 
For  It  is  heavenly  born  and  cannot  die, 
Being  a  parcel  of  the  purest  sky.'* 

*  Hooker,  Book  V.  Chap.  I.  §  -2. 

f  "  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifcxcss  and  flat, 
And  by  the  holy  rood, 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph  man 
By  every  corse  there  stood. 
This  seraph  band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ; 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light." 

Ancient  Mari.nb9 


CHAPTER  XV. 


GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 

Of  the  sources  of  beauty  open  to  us  in  the  visible  ^  ^  rpj^g^.^ 
world,  we  have  now  obtained  a  view  wliicli,  thoup^h  ^1 

'  ^  ....  emotion  of 

most  feeble  in  its  crrasp  and  scanty  in  its  detail,  is  yet  beauty  more 
general  m  its  range.  Oi  no  other  sources  than  these  found  in  things 
visible  can  we,  by  any  effort  in  our  present  condition 
of  existence,  conceive.  For  what  revelations  have  been  made  to 
humanity  inspired,  or  caught  up  to  heaven  of  things  to  the  heav- 
enly region  belonging,  have  been  either  by  unspeakable  words 
which  it  is  not  lawful  for  a  man  to  utter,  or  else  by  their  very  na^ 
ture  incommunicable,  except  in  types  and  shadows  ;  and  ineffable 
by  words  belonging  to  earth,  for  of  things  different  from  the  vis- 
ible, words  appropriated  to  the  visible  can  convey  no  image.  How 
different  from  earthly  gold  that  clear  pavement  of  the  city  might 
have  seemed  to  the  eyes  of  St.  John,  we  of  unreceived  sight  can- 
not know  ;  neither  of  that  strange  jasper  and  sardine  can  we  con- 
ceive the  likeness  which  he  assumed  that  sat  on  the  throne  above 
the  crystal  sea  ;  neither  what  seeming  that  was  of  slaying  that  the 
Root  of  David  bore  in  the  midst  of  the  elders  ;  neither  w^hat  change 
it  w^as  upon  the  form  of  the  fourth  of  them  that  w^alked  in  the 
furnace  of  Dura,  that  even  the  wrath  of  idolatry  knew  for  the 
likeness  of  the  Son  of  God.  The  knowing  that  is  here  permitted 
to  us  is  either  of  things  outward  only,  as  in  those  it  is  whose  eyes 
faith  never  opened,  or  else  of  that  dark  part  that  her  glass  shows 
feebly,  of  things  supernatural,  that  gleaming  of  the  Divine  form 
among  the  mortal  crowd,  which  all  may  catch  if  they  will  climb 
the  sycamore  and  wait ;  nor  how  much  of  God's  abiding  at  the 
house  may  be  granted  to  those  that  so  seek,  and  how  much  more 
may  be  opened  to  them  in  the  breaking  of  bread,  cannot  be  eaid ; 
but  of  that  only  we  can  reason  which  is  in  a  measure  revealed  to 
all,  of  that  which  is  by  constancy  and  purity  of  affection  to  be 


132 


GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING 


[part  III. 


found  in  the  things  and  the  beings  around  us  upon  earth.  Now 
§  2.  What  im-  ^^^oi^g  those  things  whose  beauty  we  have  hith- 
perfection  ex-  qyIq  examined,  there  has  been  a  measure  of  imperfec 

ists  in  visible  jl^ 

things.  How  in  tiou.    Either  inferiority  of  kind,  as  the  beauty  of  the 

a  sort  by  imag-  .  i  •        /.  i  i  • 

ination  remov-  lower  ammals,  or  resuitmg  irom  degradation,  as  m 
man  himself ;  and  although  in  considering  the  beauty 
of  human  form,  we  arrived  at  some  conception  of  restoration,  yet 
we  found  that  even  tlie  restoration  must  be  in  some  respect  imper- 
fect, as  incapable  of  embracing  all  qualities,  moral  and  intellec- 
tual, a  I  once,  neither  to  be  freed  from  all  signs  of  former  evil  done 
or  suffered.  Consummate  beauty,  therefore,  is  not  to  be  found 
on  earth,  though  often  such  intense  measure  of  it  as  shall  drown 
all  capacity  of  receiving ;  neither  is  it  to  be  respecting  humanity 
legitimately  conceived.  But  by  certain  operations  of  the  imagina- 
tion upon  ideas  of  beauty  received  from  things  around  us,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  conceive  respecting  superhuman  creatures  (of  that  which  is 
more  than  creature,  no  creature  ever  conceived)  a  beauty  in  some 
§  3.  Which  so^^  greater  than  we  see.  Of  this  beauty,  however,  il 
however  affects  jg  impossible  to  determine  anythino-  until  we  have 

not  our  present  l  ^  ... 

conclusions.  traced  the  imaginative  operations  to  which  it  owes  its 
being,  of  which  operations  this  much  may  be  prematurely  said, 
that  they  are  not  creative,  that  no  new  ideas  are  elicited  by  them, 
and  that  their  whole  function  is  only  a  certain  deahng  with,  con- 
centrating or  mode  of  regarding  the  impressions  received  from  ex- 
ternal things,  that  therefore,  in  the  beauty  to  which  they  will  con- 
duct us,  there  will  be  found  no  new  element,  but  only  a  peculiar 
combination  or  phase  of  those  elements  that  we  now  know,  and 
that  therefore  we  may  at  present  draw  all  the  conclusions  with 
respect  to  the  rank  of  the  theoretic  faculty,  which  the  knowledge 
of  its  subject  matter  can  warrant. 

§  4  The  four  We  have  seen  that  this  subject  matter  is  referable 
Xch  the  pie^  to  fo^^^  general  heads.  It  is  either  the  record  of  con- 
sure  of  beauty  g^iencc,  printed  in  thino-s  external,  or  it  is  a  symbol- 
is  derived  are  '  o    ^  •    •  r  i- 

all  divine.  izing  of  Divine  attributes  in  matter,  or  it  is  the  felic- 
ity of  living  things,  or  the  perfect  fulfilment  of  their  duties  and 
functions.  In  all  cases  it  is  something  Divine,  either  the  approv- 
ins^  voice  of  God,  the  glorious  symbol  of  him,  the  evidence  of  his 
kind  presence,  or  the  obedience  to  his  will  by  him  induced  ant^ 
supported. 


sc.  I.  cn.  XV.] 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


133 


All  these  subjects  of  contemplation  are  sucli  as  we  may  sup 
pose  will  remain  sources  of  pleasure  to  the  perfected  spirit 
throughout  eternity.  Divine  in  their  nature,  they  are  addressed 
to  the  immortal  part  of  men. 

There  remain,  however,  two  points  to  be  noticed  ^  5  ^^jj^t  ob- 
before  I  can  hope  that  this  conclusion  will  be  frankly  ^ade"\o^^^hi3 
accepted  by  the  reader.  If  it  be  the  moral  part  of  conclusion, 
us  to  which  beauty  addresses  itself,  how  does  it  happen,  it  will 
be  asked,  that  it  is  ever  found  in  the  works  of  impious  men,  and 
how  is  it  possible  for  such  to  desire  or  conceive  it  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  how  does  it  happen  that  men  in  high  state 
of  moral  culture  are  often  insensible  to  the  influence  of  material 
beauty,  and  insist  feebly  upon  it  as  an  instrument  of  soul  culture. 

These  two  objections  I  shall  endeavor  briefly  to  answer,  not 
that  they  can  be  satisfactorily  treated  without  that  detailed  ex- 
amination of  the  whole  body  of  great  works  of  art,  on  which  I 
purpose  to  enter  in  the  following  volume.  For  the  right  deter- 
mination of  these  two  questions  is  indeed  the  whole  end  and  aim 
of  my  labor,  (and  if  it  could  be  here  accomplished,  I  should  be- 
stow no  effort  farther,)  namely,  the  proving  that  no  supreme 
pov;er  of  art  can  be  attained  by  impious  men  ;  and  that  the 
neglect  of  art,  as  an  interpreter  of  divine  things,  has  been  of 
evil  consequence  to  the  Christian  world. 

At  present,  however,  I  would  only  meet  such  objections  as 
must  immediately  arise  in  the  reader's  mind. 

And  first,  it  will  be  remembered  that  I  have,  ^  ^ 
throughout  the  examination  of  typical  beauty,  as-  Laiuy  niay^^iS 
serted  its  instinctive  power,  the  moral  meaning  of  it  pifrsued!^^^'^in. 
being  only  discoverable  by  faithful  thought.  Now 
this  instinctive  sense  of  it  varies  in  intensity  among  men,  being 
given,  like  the  hearing  ear  of  music,  to  some  more  than  to  others : 
and  if  those  to  whom  it  is  given  in  large  measure  be  unfortu- 
nately men  of  impious  or  unreflecting  spirit,  it  is  very  possible 
that  the  perceptions  of  beauty  should  be  by  them  cultivated  on 
principles  merely  aesthetic,  and  so  lose  their  hallowing  power  ;  for 
though  the  good  seed  in  them  is  altogether  divine,  yet,  there 
being  no  blessing  in  the  springing  thereof,  it  brings  forth  wild 
grapes  in  the  end.  And  yet  these  wild  grapes  are  well  discern- 
ible, like  the  deadly  gourds  of  Gilgal.    There  is  in  all  works  of 


134 


GENERAL  CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING 


[fart  in. 


such  men  a  taint  and  stain,  and  jarring  discord,  blacker  and  louder 
exactly  in  proportion  to  the  moral  deficiency,  of  which  the  best 
proof  and  measure  is  to  be  found  in  their  treatment  of  the  human 
form,  (since  in  landscape  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  introduce  defi- 
nite expression  of  evil,)  of  which  the  highest  beauty  has  been 
attained  only  once,  and  then  by  no  system  taught  painter,  but  by 
a  most  holy  Dominican  monk  of  Fiesole  ;  and  beneath  him  all 
stoop  lower  and  lower  in  proportion  to  their  inferior  sanctity, 
though  with  more  or  less  attainment  of  that  which  is  noble,  ac- 
cording to  their  intellectual  power  and  earnestness,  as  Raffaelle  in 
his  St.  Cecilia,  (a  mere  study  of  a  passionate,  dark-eyed,  large 
formed  Italian  model,)  and  even  Perugino,  in  that  there  is  about 
his  noblest  faces  a  shortcoming,  indefinable ;  an  absence  of  the 
full  out-pouring  of  the  sacred  spirit  that  there  is  in  Angelico  ; 
traceable,  I  doubt  not,  to  some  deficiencies  and  avaricious  flaws 
of  his  heart,  whose  consequences  in  his  conduct  were  such  as  to 
give  Vasari  hope  that  his  lies  might  stick  to  him  (for  the  contra- 
diction of  which  in  the  main,  if  there  be  not  contradiction  enough 
in  every  line  that  the  hand  of  Perugino  drew,  compare  Rio,  de  la 
Poesie  Chretienne,  and  note  also  what  Rio  has  singularly  missed 
observing,  that  Perugino,  in  his  portrait  of  himself  in  the  Florence 
gallery,  has  put  a  scroll  into  the  hand,  with  the  words  "  Timete 
Dcum,"  thus  surely  indicating  that  which  he  considered  his  duty 
and  message  :)  and  so  all  other  even  of  the  sacred  painters,  not 
to  speak  of  the  lower  body  of  men  in  whom,  on  the  one  hand, 
there  is  marked  sensuality  and  impurity  in  all  that  they  seek  of 
beauty,  as  in  Correggio  and  Guido,  or,  on  the  other,  a  want  in 
measure  of  the  sense  of  beauty  itself,  as  in  Rubens  and  Titian, 
showing  itself  in  the  adoption  of  coarse  types  of  feature  and 
„  „     .     form  ;  sometimes  also  (of  which  I  could  find  instances 

§.  7.  How  m-  '  ^ 

terrupted  by  in  modcm  timcs,)  in  a  want  of  evidence  of  delight  in 
what  they  do ;  so  that,  after  they  have  rendered  some 
passage  of  exceeding  beauty,  they  will  suffer  some  discordant 
point  to  interfere  with  it,  and  it  will  not  hurt  them,  as  if  they  had 
no  pleasure  in  that  which  was  best,  but  had  done  it  in  inspiration 
that  was  not  profitable  to  them,  as  deaf  men  might  touch  an  in- 
strument with  a  feeling  in  their  heai't,  which  yet  returns  not  out- 
wardly upon  them,  and  so  know  not  when  they  play  false :  and 
sometimes  by  total  want  of  choice,  for  there  is  a  choice  of  love 


8C.  I.  CH.  XV.] 


THE  THEORETIC  TACULTY. 


135 


in  all  riglitly  tempered  men,  not  that  ignorant  and  insolent  choice 
which  rejects  half  nature  as  empty  of  the  right,  but  that  pure 
choice  that  fetches  the  right  out  of  everything ;  and  where  this 
is  wanting,  we  may  see  men  walking  up  and  down  in  dry  places, 
finding  no  rest,  ever  and  anon  doing  something  noble,  and  yet  not 
following  it  up,  but  dwelling  the  next  instant  on  something  im- 
pure or  profitless  with  the  same  intensity  and  yet  impatience,  so 
that  they  are  ever  wondered  at  and  never  sympathized  with,  and 
while  they  dazzle  all,  they  lead  none  ;  and  then,  beneath  these 
again,  we  find  others  on  whose  works  there  are  definite  signs  of 
evil  mind,  ill-repressed,  and  then  inability  to  avoid,  and  at  last 
perpetual  seeking  for  and  feeding  upon  horror  and  ugliness,  and 
filthiness  of  sin,  as  eminently  in  Salvator  and  Caravaggio,  and  the 
lower  Dutch  schools,  only  in  these  last  less  painfully  as  they  lose 
the  villanous  in  the  brutal,  and  the  horror  of  crime  in  its  idiocy. 
But  secondlv,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  it  is  neither  bv  ^ «    ^  . 

-  '  "    S  8.  Greatness 


truth 


US  uncertainable  what  moments  of  pure  feeling  or  as-  1^^-,^^^,-^^^ 

Deity  sus- 
ed  and  sp 
ken   in  and 
throng 
men. 


piration  may  occur  to  aien  of  minds  apparently  cold  tamed  and  spo- 
and  lost,  nor  by  us  to  be  pronounced  through  what  unough  e?ii 
instruments,  and  in  what  strangely  occurrent  voices, 
God  may  choose  to  communicate  good  to  men.  It  seems  to  me 
(hat  much  of  what  is  great,  and  to  all  men  beneficial,  has  been 
wrought  by  those  v^ho  neither  intended  nor  knew  the  good  they 
did,  and  that  many  mighty  harmonies  have  been  discoursed  by 
instruments  that  had  been  dumb  or  discordant,  but  that  God 
knew  their  stops.  The  Spirit  of  Prophecy  consisted  with  the 
avarice  of  Balaam,  and  the  disobedience  of  Saul.  Could  we 
spare  from  its  page  that  parable,  which  he  said,  who  saw  the 
vision  of  the  Almighty,  falling  into  a  trance,  but  having  his  eyes 
open,  though  we  know  that  the  sword  of  his  punishment  was  then 
sharp  in  its  sheath  beneath  him  in  the  plains  of  Moab  ?  or  shall 
we  not  lament  with  David  over  the  shield  cast  away  on  the  Gillu^a 
mountains,  of  him  to  whom  God  gave  another  heart  that  day, 
when  he  turned  his  back  to  go  from  Samuel  ?  It  is  not  our  piirt 
to  look  hardly,  nor  to  look  always,  to  the  character  or  the  deeds 
of  men,  but  to  accept  from  all  of  them,  and  to  hold  fast  that 
which  we  can  prove  good,  and  feel  to  be  ordained  for  us.  We 
know  that  whatever  good  there  is  in  tliem  is  itself  divine,  and 
wherever  we  see  the  virtue  of  ardent  labor  and  self-surrenderina 


136 


GENERAL   CONCLUSIONS  RESPECTING 


[part  iil 


to  a  single  purpose,  wherever  we  find  constant  reference  made  to 
the  written  scripture  of  natural  beauty,  this  at  least  we  know  ia 
great  and  good,  this  we  know  is  not  granted  by  the  counsel  of 
G  od,  without  purpose,  nor  maintained  without  result :  Their  in- 
terpretation we  may  accept,  into  their  labor  we  may  enter,  but 
they  themselves  must  look  to  it,  if  what  they  do  has  no  intent  of 
good,  nor  any  reference  to  tiie  Giver  of  all  gifts.  Selfish  in  thei) 
industry,  unchastened  in  their  wills,  ungrateful  for  the  Spirit  that 
is  i^pon  them,  they  may  yet  be  helmed  by  that  Spirit  whitherso- 
ever the  Governor  listeth  ;  involuntary  instruments  they  may  be- 
come of  others'  good ;  unwillingly  they  may  bless  Israel,  doubt- 
ingly  discomfit  Amalek,  but  shortcoming  there  will  be  of  their 
glory,  and  sure,  of  their  punishment. 

I  believe  I  shall  be  able,  incidentally,  in  succeeding  investiga- 
tions, to  prove  this  shortcoming,  and  to  examine  the  sources  of 
it,  not  absolutely  indeed,  (seeing  that  all  reasoning  on  the  charac- 
ters of  men  must  be  treacherous,  our  knowledge  on  this  head 
being  as  corrupt  as  it  is  scanty,  while  even  in  living  with  them  it 
13  impossible  to  trace  the  working,  or  estimate  the  errors  of  great 
and  self-secreted  minds,)  but  at  least  enough  to  establish  the 
general  principle  upon  such  grounds  of  fact  as  may  satisfy  those 
who  demand  the  practical  proof  (often  in  a  measure  impossible) 
n  mi,        ^  of  thinjTS  which  can  hardly  be  doubted  in  their  ra- 

§  9.  The  second     .  . 

objection  aris-  tioual  consequence.  At  present,  it  would  be  useless 
coTjnossof  to  enter  on  an  examination  for  which  we  have  no 
to  ^externar^^  materials  ;  and  I  proceed,  therefore,  to  notice  that 
beauty.  other  and  opposite  error  of  Christian  men  in  thinking 

that  there  is  little  use  or  value  in  the  operation  of  the  theoretic 
faculty,  not  that  I  at  present  either  feel  myself  capable,  or  that 
this  is  the  place  for  the  discussion  of  that  vast  question  of  the 
operation  of  taste  (as  it  is  called)  on  the  minds  of  men,  and  the 
national  value  of  its  teaching,  but  I  wish  shortly  to  reply  to  that 
objection  which  might  be  urged  to  the  real  moral  dignity  of  the 
faculty,  that  many  Christian  men  seem  to  be  in  themselves  with- 
out it,  and  even  to  discountenance  it  in  others. 

It  has  been  said  by  Schiller,  in  his  letters  on  aesthetic  culture, 
that  ths  sense  of  beauty  never  farthered  the  performance  of  a 
Bingle  duty. 

Although  this  gross  and  inconceivable  falsity  will  hardly  be 


ec.  I.  CH.  XV.] 


THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY. 


187 


accepted  by  any  one  in  so  many  terms,  seeing  that  there  are  few 
so  utterly  lost  but  that  they  receive,  and  know  that  they  receive, 
at  certain  moments,  strength  of  some  kind,  or  rebuke  fiom  the 
appealings  of  outward  things ;  and  that  it  is  not  possible  for  a 
Christian  man  to  walk  across  so  much  as  a  rood  of  the  natural 
earth,  with  mind  unagitated  and  rightly  poised,  without  receiving 
strength  and  hope  from  some  stone,  flower,  leaf,  or  sound,  nor 
without  a  sense  of  a  dew  falling  upon  him  out  of  the  sky  ;  though, 
I  say,  this  falsity  is  not  wholly  and  in  terms  admitted,  yet  it  seems 
to  be  partly  and  practically  so  in  much  of  the  doing  and  teaching 
even  of  holy  men,  who  in  the  recommending  of  the  love  of  God  to 
us,  refer  but  seldom  to  those  things  in  which  it  is  most  abundantly 
and  immediately  shown ;  though  they  insist  much  on  his  giving 
of  bread,  and  raiment,  and  health,  (which  he  gives  to  all  inferior 
creatures,)  they  require  us  not  to  thank  him  for  that  glory  of  his 
works  which  he  has  permitted  us  alone  to  perceive :  they  tell  us 
often  to  meditate  in  the  closet,  but  they  send  us  not,  like  Isaac, 
into  the  fields  at  even,  they  dwell  on  the  duty  of  self-denial,  but 
they  exhibit  not  the  duty  of  delight.  Now  there  are  §  lo.  Reasons 
reasons  for  this,  manifold,  in  the  toil  and  warfare  of  n Jss  infheTnx' 
an  earnest  mind,  which,  in  its  efforts  at  the  raising  of  ^orid.^^  ^These 
men  from  utter  loss  and  misery,  has  often  but  little  ^^^^^^J;?^^}^^ 
time  or  disposition  to  take  heed  of  anything  more  than  criminal, 
the  bare  life,  and  of  those  so  occupied  it  is  not  for  us  to  judge ; 
but  I  think,  that,  of  the  weaknesses,  distresses,  vanities,  schisms, 
and  sins,  which  often  even  in  the  holiest  men,  diminish  their  use- 
fulness, and  mar  their  happiness,  there  would  be  fewer  if,  in  their 
struggle  with  nature  fallen,  they  sought  for  more  aid  from  nature 
undestroyed.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  real  sources  of  bluntness 
in  the  feelings  towards  the  splendor  of  the  grass  and  glory  of  the 
flower,  are  less  to  be  found  in  ardor  of  occupation,  in  seriousness 
of  compassion,  or  heavenliness  of  desire,  than  in  the  turning  of  the 
eye  at  intervals  of  rest  too  selfishly  within  ;  the  want  of  power 
to  shake  off"  the  anxieties  of  actual  and  near  interest,  and  to  leave 
results  in  God's  hands ;  the  scorn  of  all  that  does  not  seem  imme- 
diatel)^  apt  for  our  purposes,  or  open  to  our  understanding,  and 
perhaps  something  of  pride,  which  desires  rather  to  investigate 
than  to  feel.  I  believe  that  the  root  of  almost  every  §  ii.  Evii  con- 
schism  and  heresy  from  which  the  Christian  church  such^^ccTidnesa* 


138 


RESPECTING  THE  THEORETIC  FACULTY.  [PART  III. 


has  ever  suffered,  has  been  the  effort  of  men  to  earn,  rather  than 
to  receive,  their  salvation ;  and  that  the  reason  that  preaching 
is  so  commonly  ineffectual  is,  that  it  calls  on  men  oftener  to 
work  for  God,  than  to  behold  God  working  for  them.  If,  for 
every  rebuke  that  we  utter  of  men's  vices,  we  put  forth  a 
claim  upon  their  hearts  ;  if  for  every  assertion  of  God's  demands 
from  them,  we  could  substitute  a  display  of  his  kindness  to  them ; 
if  side  by  side  with  every  warning  of  death,  we  could  exhibit 
proofs  and  promises  of  immortality ;  if,  in  fine,  instead  of  assum- 
ing the  being  of  an  awful  Deity,  which  men,  though  they  cannot 
and  dare  not  deny,  are  always  unwilling,  sometimes  unable,  to 
conceive,  we  were  to  show  them  a  near,  visible,  inevitable,  but  all 
beneficent  Deity,  whose  presence  makes  the  earth  itself  a  heaven, 
I  think  there  would  be  fewer  deaf  children  sitting  in  the  market- 
§  12  Theoria  P^^^^*  cvcnts,  whatever  may  be  the  inability 

the  service  of  in  this  present  life  to  minsrle  the  full  enioyment  of 

Heaven.  o  j  *' 

the  Divine  works  with  the  full  discharge  of  every 
practical  duty,  and  confessedly  in  many  cases  this  must  be,  let  us 
not  attribute  the  inconsistency  to  any  indignity  of  the  faculty  of 
contemplation,  but  to  the  sin  and  the  suffering  of  the  fallen  state, 
and  the  change  of  order  from  the  keeping  of  the  garden  to  the 
tilling  of  the  ground.  We  cannot  say  how  far  it  is  right  or 
agreeable  with  God's  will,  while  men  are  perishing  round  about 
us,  while  grief,  and  pain,  and  wrath,  and  impiety,  and  death,  and 
all  the  powers  of  the  air,  are  working  wildly  and  evermore,  and 
the  cry  of  blood  going  up  to  heaven,  that  any  of  us  should  take 
hand  from  the  plough ;  but  this  we  know,  that  there  will  come  a 
time  when  the  service  of  God  shall  be  the  beholding  of  him ;  and 
though  in  these  stormy  seas,  where  we  are  now  driven  up  and 
down,  his  Spirit  is  dimly  seen  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  we 
are  left  to  cast  anchors  out  of  the  stern,  and  wish  for  the  day, 
that  day  will  come,  when,  with  the  evangelists  on  the  crystal  and 
stable  sea,  all  the  creatures  of  God  shall  be  full  of  eyes  within, 
and  there  shall  be  "  no  more  curse,  but  his  servants  shall  serve 
him,  and  shall  see  his  face." 


SECTION  II. 

OF  THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF    THE    THREE    FORMS    OF  IMAGINATION. 

We  have  hitherto  been  exclusively  occupied  with  ^  ^  ^  i,ATm 
those  sources  of  pleasure  which  exist  in  the  external  examination 
creation,  and  which  m  any  laithiul  copy  oi  it  must  to  agination  is  to 

1  be  attempted. 

a  certain  extent  exist  also. 

These  sources  of  beauty,  however,  are  not  presented  by  any 
very  great  work  of  art  in  a  form  of  pure  transcript.  They  inva- 
riably receive  the  reflection  of  the  mind  under  whose  shadow  they 
have  passed,  and  are  modified  or  colored  by  its  image. 

This  modification  is  the  Work  of  Imagination. 

As,  in  the  course  of  our  succeeding  investigation,  we  shall  be 
called  upon  constantly  to  compare  sources  of  beauty  existing  in 
nature  with  the  images  of  them  presented  by  the  human  mind,  it 
is  very  neci*'=^sary  for  us  shortly  to  review  the  conditions  and  limits 
of  the  imaginative  faculty,  and  to  ascertain  by  what  tests  we  may 
distinguish  its  sane,  healthy,  and  profitable  operation,  from  that 
which  is  erratic,  diseased,  and  dangerous. 

It  is  neither  desirable  nor  possible  here  to  examine  or  illustrate 
in  full  the  essence  of  this  mighty  faculty.  Such  an  examination 
would  require  a  review  of  the  whole  field  of  literature,  and  Avould 
alone  demand  a  volume.  Our  present  task  is  not  to  explain  or 
exhibit  full  portraiture  of  this  function  of  the  mind  in  all  its  rela- 
tions but  only  to  obtain  some  certain  tests  by  which  we  may 


140 


OF  THE  THREE  FORMS 


[part  ITT. 


determine  whether  it  be  very  imagination  or  no,  and  unmask  all 
impersonations  of  it,  and  this  chiefly  with  respect  to  art,  for  in 
literature  the  faculty  takes  a  thousand  forms,  according  to  the 
matter  it  has  to  treat,  and  becomes  like  the  princess  of  the 
Arabian  tale,  sword,  eagle,  or  fire,  according  to  the  war  it  wages, 
sometimes  piercing,  sometimes  soaring,  sometimes  illumining, 
retaining  no  image  of  itself,  except  its  supernatural  power,  so  that 
I  shall  content  myself  with  tracing  that  particular  form  of  it,  and 
unveiling  those  imitations  of  it  only,  which  are  to  be  found,  or 
feared,  in  painting,  referring  to  other  creations  of  mind  only  for 
illustration. 

§  2.  The  works  Unfortunately,  the  works  of  metaphysicians  will 
physidanThow  afFord  US  in  this  most  interesting  inquiry  no  aid 
re^ptcT  to  IhS  whatsoever.  They  who  are  constantly  endeavoring 
faculty.  to  fathom  and  explain  the  essence  of  the  faculties  of 

mind,  are  sure  in  the  end  to  lose  sight  of  all  that  cannot  be  ex- 
plained, (though  it  may  be  defined  and  felt,)  and  because,  as  I 
shall  presently  show,  the  essence  of  the  imaginative  faculty  is 
utterly  mysterious  and  inexplicable,  and  to  be  recognized  in  its 
results  only,  or  in  the  negative  results  of  its  absence,  the  meta- 
physicians, as  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with  their  works,  miss  it 
altogether,  and  never  reach  higher  than  a  definition  of  fancy  by 
a  false  name. 

What  I  understand  by  fancy  will  presently  appear,  not  that  I 
contend  for  nomenclature,  but  only  for  distinction  between  two 
mental  faculties,  by  whatever  name  they  be  called,  one  the  source 
of  all  that  is  great  in  the  poetic  arts ;  the  other  merely  decorative 
and  entertaining,  but  which  are  often  confounded  together,  and 
which  have  so  much  in  common  as  to  render  strict  definition  of 
either  difficult. 

$3.  Thedefini-  Cugald  Stewart's  meagre  definition  may  serve  us 
arThow  inad-  ^  starting  point.  "Imagination,"  he  says,  ''in- 
equate.  cludcs  conception  or  simple   apprehension,  which 

enables  us  to  form  a  notion  of  those  former  objects  of  perception 
or  of  knowledge,  out  of  which  we  are  to  make  a  selection;  ab- 
straction, which  separates  the  selected  materials  from  the  qualities 
and  circumstances  which  are  connected  with  them  in  nature ;  and 
judgment  or  taste,  which  selects  the  materials  and  directs  their 
combination.    To  these  powers  we  may  add  that  particular  habit 


sc.  II.  CH.  l.j 


OF  IMAGINATION. 


141 


of  association  to  which  1  formerly  gave  the  name  of  fancy,  as  il 
is  this  which  presents  to  our  choice  all  the  different  materials 
which  are  subservient  to  the  efforts  of  imagination,  and  which 
may  therefore  be  considered  as  forming  the  ground- work  of  poet- 
ical genius." 

(By  fancy  in  this  passage,  we  find  on  referring  to  the  chapter 
treating  of  it,  that  nothing  more  is  meant  than  the  rapid  occur- 
rence of  ideas  of  sense  to  the  mind.) 

Now,  in  this  definition,  the  very  point  and  purpose  of  all  the 
inquiry  is  missed.  We  are  told  that  judgment  or  taste  "  directs 
the  combination.''  In  order  that  anything  may  be  directed,  an 
end  must  be  previously  determined :  What  is  the  faculty  that 
determines  this  end  ?  and  of  what  frame  and  make,  how  boned 
and  fleshed,  how  conceiv^ed  or  seen,  is  the  end  itself?  Bare 
judgment,  or  taste,  cannot  approve  of  what  has  no  existence ;  and 
yet  by  Dugald  Stewart's  definition  we  are  left  to  their  catering 
among  a  host  of  conceptions,  to  produce  a  combination  which,  as 
the}^  work  for,  they  must  see  and  approve  before  it  exists.  This 
power  of  prophecy  is  the  very  essence  of  the  whole  matter,  and 
it  is  just  that  inexplicable  part  which  the  metaphysician  misses. 

As  mio'ht  be  expected  from  his  misunderstanding:     .      .  . 

«=>  ^  .  .  .  ^   §  4.  This  in- 

of  the  faculty,  he  has  given  an  instance  entirely  nu-  stance  nuga- 
gatory.^    It  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  Milton  a 
passage  in  which  less  power  of  imagination  was  shown,  than  the 
description  of  Eden,  if,  as  I  suppose,  this  be  the  passage  meant, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  book,  in  which  I  can  find  three  ex- 
pressions only  in  which  this  power  is  shown,  the  "  burnished  with 

*  He  continues  thus,  "  To  illustrate  these  observations,  let  us  consider  the 
steps  by  which  Milton  must  have  proceeded,  in  creating  his  imaginary  gar- 
den of  Eden.  When  he  first  proposed  to  himself  that  subject  of  description 
il  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  a  variety  of  the  most  striking  scenes  which  h 
had  seen,  crowded  into  his  mind.  The  association  of  ideas  suggested  them 
and  the  power  of  conception  placed  each  of  them  before  him  with  all  its  beau 
ties  and  imperfections.  In  every  natural  scene,  if  we  destine  it  for  any  par- 
ticular purpose,  there  are  defects  and  redundancies,  which  art  may  sometimes, 
but  cannot  always  correct.  But  the  power  of  imagination  is  unlimited.  She 
can  create  and  annihilate,  and  dispose  at  pleasure,  her  woods,  her  rocks,  and 
her  rivers.  Milton,  accordingly,  would  not  copy  His  Fden  from  any  one  scene, 
but  would  select  from  each  the  features  which  were  most  eminently  beautiful 
The  power  of  abstraction  enabled  him  to  make  the  separation,  and  taste  d> 
reeled  him  in  the  selection." 


142 


OF  THE  THREE  FORMS 


[j'ART  HL 


golden  rind,  hung  amiable"  of  the  Hesperian  fruit,  the  "  lays  forth 
her  purple  grape"  of  the  vine  and  the  ''fringed  bank  with  myrtle 
crowned,"  of  the  lake,  and  these  are  not  what  Stewart  meant  • 
but  only  that  accumulation  of  bowers,  groves,  lawns,  and  hillocks, 
which  is  not  imagination  at  all,  but  composition,  and  that  of  the 
§  5.  Various  in-  Commonest  kind.  Hence,  if  we  take  any  passage  in 
stances.  which  there  is  real  imagination,  we  shall  find  Stew- 

art's hypothesis  not  only  inefficient  and  obscure,  but  utterly  in- 
applicable. 

Take  one  or  two  at  random. 

"  On  the  other  side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  Uke  a  comet  burned 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war." 

(Note  that  the  Avord  incensed  is  to  be  taken  in  its  literal  and 
material  sense,  set  on  fire.)  What  taste  or  judgment  was  it  that 
directed  this  combination  ?  or  is  there  nothing  more  than  taste  or 
judgment  here  ? 

Ten  paces  huge 

He  back  recoiled ;  the  tenth  on  bended  knee 
His  massy  spear  upstaid,  as  if  on  earth 
Winds  under  ground,  or  waters  forcing  way 
Sidelong  had  piisJied  a  mountaiii  from  his  seat 
Half- sunk  with  all  his  pines. 

"  Together  both  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eijelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a  field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 

Missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth  shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray^ 
Through  the  heavens'  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft  as  if  her  head  she  bowed 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud.'* 

It  is  evident  that  Stewart's  explanation  utterly  fails  in  all  these 
instances,  for  there  is  in  them  no    combination"  whatsoever,  but 


8C.  11.  CH.  I.J 


OF  IMAGINATION. 


148 


a  particular  mode  of  regarding  the  qualities  or  appearances  of  a 
single  thing,  illustrated  and  conveyed  to  us  by  the  image  of  an- 
other ;  and  the  act  of  imagination,  observe,  is  not  the  selection  of 
this  image,  but  the  mode  of  regarding  the  object. 

But  the  metaphysician's  definition  fails  yet  more  utterly,  when 
we  look  at  the  imagination  neither  as  regarding,  nor  combining, 
but  as  penetrating. 

My  gracious  Silence,  Hail ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  laughed,  had  I  come  coffin'd  home 
That  weep'st  to  see  me  triumph.    Ah  !  my  dear, 
Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear, 
And  mothers  that  lack  sons." 

How  did  Shakspeare  know  that  Virgilia  could  not  speak  ? 

This  knowledge,  this  intuitive  and  penetrative  perception,  is  still 
one  of  the  forms,  the  highest,  of  imagination,  but  there  is  no 
combination  of  images  here. 

We  find,  then,  that  the  imagination  has  three  to-  ^  ^  ^^^^  ^^^^^ 
tally  distinct  functions.    It  combines,  and  by  combi-  operatious  of 

/    ^  the  imagina- 

nation  creates  new  forms  ;  but  the  secret  principle  of  tion.  Penetra- 

.  ,  tive,  associa- 

this  combination  has  not  been  shown  by  the  analysts,  tive,  contem 
Again,  it  treats,  or  regards,  both  the  simple  images 
and  its  own  combinations  in  peculiar  ways  ;  and,  thirdly,  it  pen- 
etrates, analyzes,  and  reaches  truths  by  no  other  faculty  discov- 
erable. These  its  three  functions,  I  shall  endeavor  to  illustrate, 
but  not  in  this  order :  the  most  logical  mode  of  treatment  would 
be  to  follow  the  order  in  which  commonly  the  mind  works  ;  that 
is,  penetrating  first,  combining  next,  and  treating  or  regarding, 
finally  ;  but  this  arrangement  would  be  inconvenient,  because  the 
acts  of  penetration  and  of  regard  are  so  closely  connected,  and 
60  like  in  their  relations  to  otlier  mental  acts,  that  I  wish  to  ex- 
amine them  consecutively,  and  the  rather,  because  they  have  to 
do  with  higher  subject  matter  than  the  mere  act  of  combination, 
whose  distinctive  nature,  that  property  which  makes  it  imagina- 
tion and  not  composition,  it  will  I  tliink  be  best  to  explain  at  set- 
ting out,  as  we  easily  may,  in  subjects  familiar  and  material.  I 
shall  therefore  examine  the  imaginative  faculty  in  these  three 
forms;  first,  as  combining  or  associative;  secondly,  as  analytic  or 
penetrative ;  thirdly,  as  regardant  or  contemplative. 


CHAPTER  11. 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 

5 1.  Of  simple  Order  to  render  our  inquiry  as  easy  as  possible, 

oonception.  shall  consider  the  dealing  of  the  associative  imag- 

ination with  the  simplest  possible  matter,  that  is, — with  concep- 
tions of  material  things.  First,  therefore,  we  must  define  the 
nature  of  these  conceptions  themselves. 

After  beholding  and  examining  any  material  object,  our  knowl- 
edge respecting  it  exists  in  two  different  forms.  Some  facts  exist 
in  the  brain  in  a  verbal  form,  as  known,  but  not  conceived,  as,  for 
instance,  that  it  was  heavy  or  light,  that  it  was  eight  inches  and 
a  quarter  long,  etc.,  of  vdiich  length  we  cannot  have  accurate  con- 
ception, but  only  such  a  conception  as  might  attach  to  a  length 
of  seven  inches  or  nine  ;  and  which  fact  we  may  recollect  without 
any  conception  of  the  object  at  all.  Other  facts  respecting  it  ex- 
ist in  the  brain  in  a  visible  form,  not  always  visible,  but  volunta- 
rily visible,  as  its  being  white,  or  having  such  and  such  a  compli- 
cated shape ,  as  the  form  of  a  rose-bud  for  instance,  which  it 
would  be  difficult  to  express  verbally,  neither  is  it  retained  by  the 
brain  in  a  verbal  form,  but  a  visible  one,  that  is,  when  we  wish 
for  knowledge  of  its  form  for  immediate  use,  we  summon  up  a 
vision  or  image  of  the  thing  ;  we  do  not  remember  it  in  words,  as 
we  remember  the  fact  that  it  took  so  many  days  to  blow,  or  that 
it  was  gathered  at  such  and  such  a  time. 

The  knowledge  of  things  retained  in  this  visible  form  is  called 
conception  by  the  metaphysicians,  which  term  I  shall  retain ;  it  is 
inaccurately  called  imagination  by  Taylor,  in  the  passage  quoted 
by  Wordsworth  in  the  preface  to  his  poems,  not  but  that  the 
term  imagination  is  etymologically  and  rightly  expressive  of  it, 
but  we  want  that  term  for  a  higher  faculty. 

§  2.  How  con-  There  are  many  questions  respecting  this  faculty  of 
verbal  Tnowl-  Conception  of  very  great  interest,  such  as  the  exact 
edge.  amount  of  aid  that  verbal  knowledge  renders  so  vis- 


C.  II.  Cn.  II.]  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


115 


ible,  (as,  for  instance,  the  verbal  knowledge  that  a  flower  has  live, 
or  seven,  or  ten  petals,  or  that  a  muscle  is  inserted  at  such  and 
such  a  point  of  the  bone,  aids  the  conception  of  the  flower  or  the 
iimb  ;)  and  again,  what  amount  of  aid  the  visible  knowledge  ren- 
ders to  the  verbal,  as  for  instance,  whether  any  one,  being  asked 
a  question  about  some  animal  or  thing,  which  instantly  and  from 
verbal  knowledge  he  cannot  answer,  may  have  such  power  of  sum- 
moning up  the  image  of  the  animal  or  thing  as  to  ascertain  the 
fact,  by  actual  beholding,  (which  I  do  not  assert,  but  can  con- 
ceive to  be  possible ;)  and  again,  what  is  that  indefinite  and  sub- 
tile character  of  the  conception  itself  in  most  men,  which  admits 
not  of  being  by  themselves  traced  or  realized,  and  yet  is  a  sure 
test  of  likeness  in  any  representation  of  the  thing ;  like  an  in- 
taglio, with  a  front  light  on  it,  whose  lines  cannot  be  seen,  and  yet 
thej  will  fit  one  definite  form  only,  and  that  accurately ;  these 
and  many  other  questions  it  is  irrelevant  at  present  to  determine,^ 
since  to  forward  our  present  purpose,  it  will  be  well  to  suppose 
the  conception,  aided  by  verbal  knowledge,  to  be  absolutely  per- 
fect, and  we  will  suppose  a  man  to  retain  such  clear  image  of  a 
large  number  of  the  material  things  he  has  seen,  as  to  be  able  to 
set  down  any  of  them  on  paper  with  perfect  fidelity  and  absolute 
memoryf  of  their  most  minute  features. 

In  thus  setting  them  down  on  paper,  he  works,  I  suppose,  ex- 
actly as  he  would  work  from  nature,  only  copying  the  remembered 
image  in  his  mind,  instead  of  the  real  thing.  He  is,  therefore, 
still  nothing  more  than  a  copyist.  There  is  no  exercise  of  imag- 
ination in  this  whatsoever. 

But  over  these  images,  vivid  and  distinct  as  nature  §  3.  how  us«ci 
herself,  he  has  a  command  which  over  nature  he  ^^composition 
has  not.  He  can  summon  any  that  lie  chooses,  and  if,  therefore, 
any  group  of  them  which  he  received  from  nature  be  not  alto- 
gether  to  his  mind,  he  is  at  liberty  to  remove  some  of  the  com- 
ponent images,  add  others  foreign,  and  re-arrange  the  whole. 

Let  us  suppose,  for  instance,  that  he  has  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  forms  of  the  Aiguilles  Verte  and  Argentiere,  and  of  the  great 

*  Compare  Chapter  IV.  of  this  Section. 

•f  On  the  distinction  rightly  made  by  the  metaphysicians  between  concep- 
tion absolute,  and  conception  accompanied  by  reference  to  past  time,  (or  mem- 
ory.) it  is  of  no  necessity  here  to  insist. 

VOL.  II.  7 


146 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


[part  III 


glacier  between  them  at  the  upper  extremity  of  the  valley  of  Cha- 
monix.  The  forms  of  the  mountains  please  him,  but  the  presence 
of  the  glacier  suits  not  his  purpose.  He  removes  the  glacier, 
sets  the  mountains  farther  apart,  and  introduces  between  them 
part  of  the  valley  of  the  Rhone. 

This  is  composition,  and  is  what  Dugald  Stewart  mistook  for 
imagination,  in  the  kingdom  of  which  noble  faculty  it  has  no  part 
nor  lot. 

^  4  Character  "^^"^^  csscntial  characters  of  composition,  properly 
istics  of compo-  SO  Called,  are  these.  The  mind  which  desi^-es  the 
new  feature  summons  up  before  it  those  images  which 
it  supposes  to  be  of  the  kind  wanted,  of  these  it  takes  the  one 
which  it  supposes  to  be  fittest,  and  tries  it :  if  it  will  not  answer, 
it  tries  another,  until  it  has  obtained  such  an  association  as 
pleases  it. 

In  this  operation,  if  it  be  of  little  sensibility,  it  regards  only  the 
absolute  beauty  or  value  of  the  images  brought  before  it ;  and 
takes  that  or  those  which  it  thinks  fairest  or  most  interesting, 
without  any  regard  to  their  sympathy  with  those  for  whose  com- 
pany they  are  destined.  Of  this  kind  is  all  vulgar  composition  ; 
the  "  Mulino"  of  Claude,  described  in  the  preface  to  the  first  part, 
being  a  characteristic  example. 

If  the  mind  be  of  higher  feeling,  it  will  look  to  the  sympathy 
or  contrast  of  the  features,  to  their  likeness  or  dissimilarity ;  it 
will  take,  as  it  thinks  best,  features  resembling  or  discordant,  and 
if  when  it  has  put  them  together,  it  be  not  satisfied,  it  will  repeal 
the  process  on  the  features  themselves,  cutting  away  one^iart  and 
putting  in  another,  so  working  more  and  more  delicately  down  to 
the  lowest  details,  until  by  dint  of  experiment,  of  repeated  trials 
and  shiftings,  and  constant  reference  to  principles,  (as  that  two 
lines  must  not  mimic  one  another,  that  one  mass  must  not  be 
equal  to  another,)  etc.,  it  has  morticed  together  a  satisfactory  re- 
sult. 

§  5.  What  This  process  will  be  more  and  more  rapid  and 

piirdb^u^The  effective,  in  proportion  to  the  artist's  powers  of  con- 
three  functions  ^^P^^^^^  association,  these  in  their  turn  depending 
of  fancy.  qu  his  knowledge  and  experience.  The  distinctness 
of  his  ppwers  of  conception  will  give  value,  point,  and  truth  to 
every  fragment  that  he  draws  from  memory.    His  powers  of  asso- 


sc.  II.  CH.  II.] 


OF  IMAGINATION  AtoSOCIATlVE. 


147 


ciation,  and  his  knowledge  of  nature  will  pour  out  before  him  in 
greater  or  less  number  and  appositeness  the  images  from  which 
to  choose.  His  experience  guides  him  to  quick  discernment  in 
the  combination,  when  made,  of  the  parts  that  are  offensive  and 


The  most  elevated  power  of  mind  of  all  these,  is  that  of  asso- 
ciation, by  which  images  apposite  or  resemblant,  or  of  whatever 
kind  wanted,  are  called  up  quickly  and  in  multitudes.  When  this 
power  is  very  brilliant,  it  is  called  fancy,  not  that  this  is  the 
only  meaning  of  the  word  fancy,  but  it  is  the  meaning  of  it  in 
relation  to  that  function  of  the  imagination  which  we  are  here 
considering ;  for  fancy  has  three  functions  ,  one  subordinate  to 
each  of  the  three  functions  of  the  imagination. 

Great  differences  of  power  are  manifested  among  artists  in  this 
respect,  some  having  hosts  of  distinct  images  always  at  their 
command,  and  rapidly  discerning  resemblance  or  contrast ;  others 
having  few  images,  and  obscure,  at  their  disposal,  nor  readily 
governing  those  they  have. 

Where  the  powers  of  fancy  are  very  brilliant,  the  picture 
becomes  highly  interesting ;  if  her  images  are  systematically  and 
rightly  combined,  and  truthfully^  rendered,  it  will  become  even 
impressive  and  instructive ;  if  wittily  and  curiously  combined,  it 
will  be  captivating  and  entertaining. 

But  all  this  time  the  imao^ination  has  not  once     ^  ^ 

^  .  §  6.  Imagma- 

shown  itself.    All  this  (except  the  gift  of  fancy)  may  tion  not  yet 
be  taught,  all  this  is  easily  comprehended  and  ana- 
lyzed ;  but  imagination  is  neither  to  be  taught,  nor  by  any  efforts 
to  be  attained,  nor  by  any  acuteness  of  discernment  dissected  or 
analyzed. 

We  have  seen  that  in  composition  the  mind  can  only  take  cog- 
nizance of  likeness  or  dissimilarity,  or  of  abstract  beauty  among 
the  ideas  it  brings  together.  But  neither  likeness  nor  dissimilarity 
secures  harmony.  We  saw  in  the  chapter  on  unity  that  likeness 
destroyed  harmony  or  unity  of  membership,  and  that  difference 
did  not  necessarily  secure  it,  but  only  that  particular  imperfection 
in  each  of  the  harmonizing  parts  which  can  only  be  supplied  by 
its  fellow  part.  If,  therefore,  the  combination  made  is  to  be 
harmonious,  the  artist  must  induce  in  each  of  its  component  parts 
(suppose  two  only,  for  simplicity's  sake,)  such  ij^^^j^^P^^^SSi 


require  change. 


L48 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


[part  in. 


that  the  other  shall  put  it  right.  If  one  of  them  be  perfect  by 
itself,  the  other  will  be  an  excrescence.  Both  must  be  faulty 
when  separate,  and  each  corrected  by  the  presence  of  the  other. 
If  he  can  accomplish  this,  the  result  will  be  beautiful ;  it  will  be 
a  whole,  an  organized  body  with  dependent  members  ; — he  is  an 
inventor.  If  not,  let  his  separate  features  be  as  beautiful,  as 
apposite,  or  as  resemblant  as  they  may,  they  form  no  whole. 
They  are  two  members  glued  together.  He  is  only  a  carpenter 
and  joiner. 

§  7.  imagina-  Now,  the  couceivable  imperfections  of  any  single 
rdative  ioncep-  feature  are  infinite.  It  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  fix 
feet  compoiieut  "^P^^^  ^  foYm  of  imperfection  in  the  one,  and  try  with 
P^^*^s-  this  all  the  forms  of  imperfection  of  the  other  until 

one  fits ;  but  the  two  imperfections  must  be  co-relatively  and 
simultaneously  conceived. 

This  is  imagination,  properly  so  called,  imagination  associative, 
the  grandest  mechanical  power  that  the  human  intelligence  pos- 
sesses, and  one  which  Avill  appear  more  and  more  marvellous  the 
longer  we  consider  it.  By  its  operation,  two  ideas  are  chosen  out 
of  an  infinite  mass,  (for  it  evidently  matters  not  whether  the 
imperfections  be  conceived  out  of  the  infinite  number  conceivable, 
or  selected  out  of  a  number  recollected,)  two  ideas  which  are 
separately  wrong,  which  together  shall  be  right,  and  of  whose 
unity,  therefore,  the  idea  must  be  formed  at  the  instant  they  are 
seized,  as  it  is  only  in  that  unity  that  either  are  good,  and  there- 
fore only  the  conception  of  that  unit?/  can  prompt  the  preference, 
'Now,  what  is  that  prophetic  action  of  mind,  which,  out  of  an 
infinite  mass  of  things  that  cannot  be  tried  together,  seizes,  at  the 
same  instant  two  that  are  fit  for  each  other,  together  right ;  yet 
each  disagreeable  alone. 

o      ,  .  ,      This  operation  of  mind,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  is 

§  8.    Material  ^ 

analogy   with  absolutely  inexplicable,  but  there  is  something  like  it 

imagination.       .       ,  . 

in  che:-iistry. 

"  The  action  of  sulphuric  acid  on  metallic  zinc  affords  an 
instance  of  what  was  once  called  disposing  affinity.  Zinc  de- 
composes pure  water  at  common  temperatures  with  extreme 
slowness;  but  as  soon  as  sulphuric  acid  is  added,  decomposition 
of  the  water  takes  place  rapidly,  though  the  acid  merely  unite? 
with  oxide  of  zinc.    The  former  explanation  was,  that  the  affinity 


sc.  II.  CH.  il.]  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE.  149 

of  the  acid  for  oxide  of  zinc  disposed  the  metal  to  unite  with 
oxygen,  and  thus  enabled  it  to  decompose  water ;  that  is,  tlie 
oxide  of  zinc  was  supposed  to  produce  an  effect  previous  to  its 
existence.  The  obscurity  of  this  explanation  arises  from  regard- 
ing changes  as  consecutive,  which  are  in  reality  simultaneous. 
There  is  no  succession  in  the  process,  the  oxide  of  zinc  is  not 
formed  previously  to  its  combination  with  the  acid,  but  at  the 
same  instant.  There  is,  as  it  were,  but  one  chemical  change, 
which  consists  in  the  combination  at  one  and  the  same  moment  of 
zinc  with  oxygen,  and  of  oxide  of  zinc  with  the  acid  ;  and  this 
change  occurs  because  these  two  affinities,  acting  together,  over- 
come the  attraction  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen  for  one  another."* 

Now,  if  the  imaginative  artist  will  permit  us,  with  all  deference, 
to  represent  his  combining  inteUigence  under  the  figure  of  sul- 
phuric acid  ;  and  if  we  suppose  the  fragment  of  zinc  to  be  embar- 
rassed among  infinitely  numerous  fragments  of  diverse  metals, 
and  the  oxygen  dispersed  and  mingled  among  gases  countless  and 
indistinguishable,  we  shall  have  an  excellent  type  in  material 
thinijfs  of  the  action  of  the  imao-ination  on  the  immaterial.  Both 
actions  are,  I  think,  inexplicable,  for  however  simultaneous  the 
chemical  changes  may  be,  yet  the  causing  power  is  the  affinity 
of  the  acid  for  what  has  no  existence.  It  is  neither  to  be  ex- 
plained how  that  affinity  operates  on  atoms  uncombined,  nor  how 
the  artist's  desire  for  an  unconceived  whole  prompts  him  to  the 
selection  of  necessary  divisions. 

Now,  this  operation  would  be  wonderful  enousrh,    ^  ^, 

.  ^  1.1  .1  1         ^   '   §  9.  The  grasp 

\i  it  were  concerned  with  two  ideas  only.  But  a  and  dignity  oi 
powerfully  imaginative  mind  seizes  and  combines  at 
the  same  instant,  not  only  two,  but  all  the  important  ideas  of  its 
poem  or  picture,  and  while  it  works  with  any  one  of  them,  it  is 
at  the  same  instant  working  with  and  modifying  all  in  their  rela- 
tions to  it,  never  losing  sight  of  their  bearings  on  each  other ;  as 
the  motion  of  a  snake's  body  goes  through  all  parts  at  once,  and 
its  volition  acts  at  the  same  instant  in  coils  that  go  contrary  ways. 

This  faculty  is  indeed  something  that  looks  as  if  man  were 
made  after  the  image  of  God.  It  is  inconceivable,  admirable, 
altogether  divine ;  and  yet  wonderful  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  palpa- 

*  Elements  of  Chemistry  by  the  late  Edward  Turner,  M.D.  Part  II., 
Sec  IV. 


150 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


[part  in 


bly  evident  that  no  less  an  operation  is  necessary  for  the  pro- 
duction of  any  great  work,  for,  by  the  definition  of  unity  of 
membership,  (the  essential  characteristic  of  greatness,)  not  only 
certain  couples  or  groups  of  parts,  but  all  the  parts  of  a  noble 
work  must  be  separately  imperfect ;  each  must  imply,  and  ask  for 
all  the  rest,  and  the  glory  of  every  one  of  them  must  consist  in 
its  relation  to  the  rest,  neither  while  so  much  as  one  is  wanting 
can  any  be  right.  And  it  is  evidently  impossible  to  conceive  in 
each  separate  feature,  a  certain  want  or  wrongness  which  can  only 
be  corrected  by  the  other  features  of  the  picture,  (not  by  one  or 
two  merely,  but  by  all,)  unless  together  with  the  want,  we  con- 
ceive also  of  what  is  wanted,  that  is  of  all  the  rest  of  the  work 
or  picture.    Hence  Fuseli : — 

"  Second  thoughts  are  admissible  in  painting  and  poetry  only  as 
dressers  of  the  first  conception ;  no  great  idea  was  ever  formed  in 
fragments." 

He  alone  can  conceive  and  compose  who  sees  the  whole  at 
once  before  him." 

There  is,  however,  a  limit  to  the  power  of  all 
§  10.  Its  limits,  i^^j^^^  imao'ination.    When  the  relations  to  be  ob- 

o 

served  are  absolutely  necessary,  and  highly  complicated,  the 
mind  cannot  grasp  them,  and  the  result  is  a  total  deprivation  of 
all  power  of  imagination  associative  in  such  matter.  For  this 
reason,  no  human  mind  has  ever  conceived  a  new  animal.  For  as 
it  is  evident  that  in  an  animal,  every  part  implies  all  the  rest ; 
that  is,  the  form  of  the  eye  involves  the  form  of  the  brow  and 
nose,  these  the  form  of  the  forehead  and  lip,  these  of  the  head 
and  chin,  and  so  on,  so  that  it  is  physically  impossible  to  conceive 
of  any  one  of  these  members,  unless  we  conceive  the  relation  it 
bears  to  the  whole  animal ;  and  as  this  relation  is  necessary, 
certain,  and  complicated,  allowing  of  no  license  or  inaccuracy,  the 
intellect  utterly  fails  under  the  load,  and  is  reduced  to  mere  com- 
position, putting  the  bird's  wing  on  men's  shoulders,  or  half  the 
human  body  to  half  the  horse's,  in  doing  which  there  is  no  action 
of  imagination,  but  only  of  fancy ;  though  in  the  treatment  and 
contemplation  of  the  compound  form  there  may  be  much  imagi- 
nation, as  we  shall  presently  see.  (Chap.  HI.  §  30.) 
§  11.  iiow  man-  The  matter,  therefore,  in  v/hich  associative  imagi- 
ment'^ofVncw-  nation  can  be  shown  is  that  which  admits  of  great 


sc.  II.  CH.  II.]  OF   IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVH:. 


151 


license  and  variety  of  arrangements,  and  in  which  a  ^^.^  relations 
certain  amount  of  relation  only  is  required  ;  as  espe-  its  deficiency 

»  ,      ,  .     .        .        ,  :  ,  illustrated 

cially  in  the  elements  of  landscape  painting,  m  winch 
best  it  may  be  illustrated. 

When  an  unimaginative  painter  is  about  to  draw  a  tree,  (and 
we  will  suppose  him,  for  better  illustration  of  the  point  in 
question,  to  have  good  feeling  and  correct  knowledge  of  the 
nature  of  trees,)  he  probably  lays  on  his  paper  such  a  general 
form  as  he  knows  to  be  characteristic  of  the  tree  to  be  drawn, 
and  such  as  he  believes  will  fall  in  agreeably  with  the  other 
masses  of  his  picture,  which  we  will  suppose  partly  prepared. 
When  this  form  is  set  down,  he  assuredly  finds  it  has  done  some- 
thing he  did  not  intend  it  to  do.  It  has  mimicked  some  promi- 
nent line,  or  overpowered  some  necessary  mass.  He  begins 
pruning  and  changing,  and  after  several  experiments,  succeeds  in 
obtaining  a  form  which  does  no  material  mischief  to  any  other. 
To  this  form  he  proceeds  to  attach  a  trunk,  and  having  probably 
a  received  notion  or  rule  (for  the  unimaginative  painter  never 
works  without  a  principle)  that  tree  trunks  ouglit  to  lean  first  one 
way  and  then  the  other  as  they  go  up,  and  ought  not  to  stand 
under  the  middle  of  the  tree,  he  sketches  a  serpentine  form  of 
requisite  propriety ;  when  it  has  gone  up  far  enough,  that  is  till 
it  begins  to  look  disagreeably  long,  he  will  begin  to  ramify  it, 
and  if  there  be  another  tree  in  the  picture  with  two  large  branches, 
he  knows  that  this,  by  all  laws  of  composition,  ought  to  have 
three  or  four,  or  some  different  number ;  one  because  he  knov/s 
that  if  thi  ee  or  four  branches  start  from  the  same  point  they  will 
look  formal,  therefore  he  makes  them  start  from  points  one  above 
another,  and  because  equal  distances  are  improper,  therefore  they 
shall  start  at  unequal  distan©es.  When  they  are  fairly  started,  he 
knows  they  must  undulate  or  go  backwards  and  forwards,  which 
accordingly  he  makes  them  do  at  random ;  and  because  he  knows 
that  all  forms  ought  to  be  contrasted,  therefore  he  makes  one 
bend  down  while  the  other  three  go  up.  The  three  that  go  up 
he  knows  must  not  go  up  without  interfering  with  each  other, 
and  so  he  makes  two  of  them  cross.  He  thinks  it  also  proper 
that  there  should  be  variety  of  character  in  them,  so  lie  makes 
the  one  that  bends  down  graceful  and  flexible,  and  of  the  twc 
that  cross,  he  splinters  one  and  makes  a  stump  of  it.    He  repeats 


152 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


[part  in 


the  process  among  the  more  complicated  minor  boughs,  until 
coming  to  the  smallest,  he  thinks  farther  care  unnecessary,  but 
draws  them  freely,  and  by  chance.  Having  to  put  on  the  foliage, 
he  will  make  it  flow  properly  in  the  direction  of  the  tree's  growth, 
he  will  make  all  the  extremities  graceful,  but  will  be  grievously 
plagued  by  finding  them  come  all  alike,  and  at  last  will  be  obliged 
to  spoil  a  number  of  them  altogether,  in  order  to  obtain  opposi- 
tion. They  will  not,  however,  be  united  in  this  their  spoliation, 
but  will  remain  uncomfortably  separate  and  individually  ill-tem- 
pered. He  consoles  himself  by  the  reflection  that  it  is  unnatural 
for  all  of  them  to  be  equally  perfect. 

§  12.  Laws  of  Now  I  suppose  that  through  the  whole  of  this  pro- 
guard^o/^the  ^^^s  he  has  been  able  to  refer  to  his  definite  memory 
unimaginative,  couceptiou  of  nature  for  every  one  of  the  frag- 
ments he  has  successively  added,  that  the  details,  color,  fractures, 
insertions,  etc.,  of  his  boughs,  are  all  either  actual  recollections  or 
bassed  on  secure  knowledge  of  the  tree,  (and  herein  I  allow  far 
more  than  is  commonly  the  case  with  unimaginative  painters.) 
But  as  far  as  the  process  of  combination  is  concerned,  it  is  evident 
that  from  beginning  to  end  his  laws  have  been  his  safety,  and  his 
plague  has  been  his  liberty.  He  has  been  compelled  to  work  at 
random,  or  under  the  guidance  of  feeling  only,  whenever  there  was 
anything  left  to  his  own  decision.  He  has  never  been  decided  in 
anything  except  in  w^iat  he  must  or  must  not  do.  He  has  walked 
as  a  drunken  man  on  a  broad  road,  his  guides  are  the  hedges ; 
and  between  these  limits,  the  broader  the  way,  the  worse  he 
gets  on. 

§  13  Are  by  "^^^  advance  of  the  imaginative  artist  is  precisely 
the  imaginative  the  reverse  of  this.    He  has  no  laws.    He  defies  all 

painter  despis-  .  n  i     i  mi 

■id.  Tests  of  restramt,  and  cuts  down  all  hedges,  ihere  is  nothing 
imagination.  ^j^j^jj^  limits  of  natural  possibility  that  he  dares 
not  do,  or  that  he  allows  the  necessity  of  doing.  The  laws  of 
nature  he  knows,  these  are  to  him  no  restraint.  They  are  his 
own  nature.  All  other  laws  or  limits  he  sets  at  utter  defiance, 
his  journey  is  over  an  untrodden  and  pathless  plain.  But  he 
sees  his  end  over  the  waste  from  the  first,  and  goes  straight  at  it, 
never  losing  sight  of  it,  nor  thro^ving  away  a  step.  Nothing  can 
stop  him,  nothing  turn  him  aside ;  falcons  and  lynxes  are  of  slow 
and  uncertain  sight  compared  with  his.    He  saw  his  tree,  tnmk, 


sc.  II.  CH.  II.]  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


16S 


boughs,  foliage  and  all,  from  the  first  moment ;  not  only  the  tree 
but  the  sky  behind  it ;  not  only  that  tree  or  sky,  but  all  the 
other  great  features  of  his  picture :  by  what  intense  power  of 
instantaneous  selection  and  amalgamation  cannot  be  explained, 
but  by  this  it  may  be  proved  and  tested,  that  if  we  examine  the 
tree  of  the  unimaginative  painter,  we  shall  find  that  on  removing 
any  pan  r  parts  of  it,  the  rest  will  indeed  suffer,  as  being  de- 
prived of  the  proper  development  of  a  tree,  and  as  involving  a 
blank  space  that  wants  occupation ;  but  the  portions  left  are  not 
made  discordant  or  disagreeable.  They  are  absolutely  and  in 
themselves  as  valuable  as  they  can  be,  every  stem  is  a  perfect 
stem,  and  every  twig  a  graceful  twig,  or  at  least  as  perfect  and 
as  graceful  as  they  were  before  the  removal  of  the  rest.  But  if 
we  try  the  same  experiment  on  the  imaginative  painter's  work, 
and  break  off  the  merest  stem  or  twig  of  it,  it  all  goes  to  pieces 
like  a  Prince  Rupert's  drop.  There  is  not  so  much  as  a  seed  of 
it  but  it  lies  on  the  tree's  life,  like  the  grain  upon  the  tongue  of 
Chaucer's  sainted  child.  Take  it  away,  and  the  boughs  will  sing 
to  us  no  longer.    All  is  dead  and  cold. 

This  then  is  the  first  sign  of  the  presence  of  real  §  14.  The  mo 
imagination  as  opposed  to  composition.  But  here  is  TmagiLtive""" 
another  not  less  important.  treatment. 

We  have  seen  that  as  each  part  is  selected  and  fitted  by  the 
unimaginative  painter,  he  renders  it,  in  itself,  as  beautiful  as  he 
is  able.  If  it  be  ugly,  it  remains  so,  he  is  incapable  of  correcting 
it  by  the  addition  of  another  ugliness,  and  therefore  he  chooses 
all  his  features  as  fair  as  they  may  be  (at  least  if  his  object  be 
beauty.)  But  a  small  proportion  only  of  the  ideas  he  has  at  his 
disposal  will  reach  his  standard  of  absolute  beauty.  The  others 
will  be  of  no  use  to  him,  and  among  those  which  he  permits  him- 
self to  use,  there  will  be  so  marked  a  family  likeness,  that  he 
will  be  more  and  more  cramped,  as  his  picture  advances,  for 
want  of  material,  and  tormented  by  multiplying  restjmblances, 
unless  disguised  by  some  artifice  of  light  and  shade  or  other 
forced  difference,  and  with  all  the  differences  he  can  imagine, 
his  tree  will  yet  show  a  sameness  and  sickening  repetition  in  all 
its  parts,  and  all  his  trees  will  be  like  one  another,  except  so  far 
as  one  leans  east  and  another  west,  one  is  broadest  at  the  top  and 
cnother  a*  the  bottom,  while  through  all  this  insipid  repetition. 


154 


OF  IMAGINATION  A8S(  CIATIVE. 


[part  ni. 


the  means  by  wliicli  he  forces  contrast,  dark  boughs  oposed  to 
liglit,  rugged  to  smooth,  etc.,  will  be  painfully  evident,  to  the 
utter  destruction  of  all  dignity  and  repose.     The  imaginative 
^     .      work  is  necessarily  the  absolute  opposite  of  all  this. 

§  15.  Imagma-  .  *^  ^ 

tion  never  re-  As  all  its  parts  are  imperfect,  and  as  there  is  an  un- 
peats  itsc  .  liniited  supply  of  imperfection,  (for  the  ways,  in  which 
things  may  be  wrong  are  infinite,)  the  imagination  is  never  at  a 
loss,  nor  ever  likely  to  repeat  itself;  nothing  comes  amiss  to  it, 
but  whatever  rude  matter  it  receives,  it  instantly  so  arranges  that 
it  comes  right ;  all  things  fall  into  their  place  and  appear  in  that 
place  perfect,  useful,  and  evidently  not  to  be  spared,  so  that  of 
its  combinations  there  is  endless  variety,  and  every  intractable 
and  seemingly  unavailable  fragment  that  we  give  to  it,  is  instantly 
turned  to  some  brilliant  use,  and  made  the  nucleus  of  a  new 
group  of  glory  ;  however  poor  or  common  the  gift,  it  will  be 
thankful  for  it,  treasure  it  up,  and  pay  in  gold,  and  it  has  that 
life  in  it  and  fire,  that  wherever  it  passes,  among  the  dead  bones 
and  dust  of  things,  behold  a  shaking,  and  the  bones  come  to- 
gether, bone  to  his  bone. 

§  16.  Relation  And  now  we  find  what  noble  sympathy  and  unity 
tive^  faculty" to  tlicro  is  betwecH  the  imaginative  and  theoretic  facul- 
the  theoretic,  ^j^g^  Botli  agree  in  this,  that  they  reject  nothing, 
and  are  thankful  for  all ;  but  the  theoretic  faculty  takes  out  of 
everything  that  which  is  beautiful,  while  the  imaginative  faculty 
takes  hold  of  the  very  imperfections  which  the  theoretic  rejects, 
and  by  means  of  these  angles  and  roughnesses,  it  joints  and  bolts 
the  separate  stones  into  a  mighty  temple,  wherein  the  theoretic 
faculty  in  its  turn,  does  deepest  homage.  Thus  sympathetic  in 
their  desires,  harmoniously  diverse  in  their  operation,  each  work- 
ing for  the  other  w^ith  what  the  other  needs  not,  all  things  exter- 
nal to  man  are  by  one  or  other  turned  to  good. 

17  M  d'fi  Now  we  have  hitherto,  for  the  sake  of  clearness, 
tion*  of  its  ma-  opposcd  the  total  abseuce  of  imagination  to  the  per- 
nifer3tation.  ^^^^  presence  of  it,  in  order  to  make  the  difference  be- 
tvvxen  composition  and  imagination  thoroughly  understood.  But 
if  we  are  to  give  examples  of  either  the  want  or  the  presence  of 
the  power,  it  is  necessary  to  note  the  circumstances  by  which  both 
are  modified.  In  the  first  place,  few  artists  of  any  standing  are 
totally  devoid  of  this  faculty,  some  small  measure  of  it  most  of 


sc.  II.  CH.  II.]  OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


155 


them  possess,  thoiigli  of  all  the  forms  of  intellect,  this,  and  ita 
sister,  penetrative  imagination,  are  the  rarest  and  most  precious  ; 
but  few  painters  have  reached  eminence  without  some  leaven  of 
it,  whether  it  can  be  increased  by  practice  I  doubt.  On  the  otliei 
hand,  fewer  still  are  possessed  of  it'  in  very  high  degree,  and  even 
with  the  men  of  most  gigantic  power  in  this  respect,  of  whom,  I 
think,  Tintoret  stands  far  the  head,  there  are  evident  limits  to  its 
exercise,  and  portions  to  be  found  in  their  works  that  have  not 
been  included  in  the  original  grasp  of  them,  but  have  been  sug- 
gested and  incorporated  during  their  progress,  or  added  in  deco- 
ration ;  and  with  the  great  mass  of  painters  there  are  frequent 
flaws  and  failures  in  the  conception,  so  that,  when  they  intend  to 
produce  a  perfect  work  they  throw  their  thought  into  different  ex- 
perimental forms,  and  decorate  it  and  discipline  it  long  before  re- 
alizing it,  so  that  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  mere  composition 
in  the  most  imaginative  works  ;  and  a  grain  or  two  of  imagination 
commonly  in  the  most  artificial.  And  again,  whatever  portions  of 
a  picture  are  taken  honestly  and  without  alteration  from  nature? 
have,  so  far  as  they  go,  the  look  of  imagination,  because  all  that 
nature  does  is  imaginative,  that  is,  perfect  as  a  whole,  and  made 
up  of  imperfect  features ;  so  that  the  painter  of  the  meanest 
imaginative  power  may  yet  do  grand  things,  if  he  will  keep  to 
strict  portraiture,  and  it  would  be  well  if  all  artists  were  to  en- 
deavor to  do  so,  for  if  they  have  imagination,  it  will  force  its  way 
in  spite  of  them,  and  'show  itself  in  their  every  stroke,  and  if  not, 
they  will  not  get  it  by  leaving  nature,  but  only  sink  into  nothing- 
ness. 

Keeping  these  points  in  view,  it  is  interesting  to  ^  instances 
observe  the  different  desrrees  and  relations  of  the  im-  ?^  absence  of 

-  ,^       ,  .  imagination. — 

ae^ination,  as  accompanied  with  more  or  less  feeling  or  ciaude,  Gaspar 

.  r  \  '  n  .  PouSSin. 

desire  oi  harmony,  vigor  oi  conception,  or  constancy 
of  reference  to  truth.  Of  men  of  name,  perhaps  Claude  is  the  best 
instance  of  a  want  of  imagination,  nearly  total,  borne  out  by  pain- 
ful but  untaught  study  of  nature,  and  much  feeling  for  abstract 
beauty  of  form,  with  none  whatever  for  harmony  of  expression. 
In  Gaspar  Poussin,  Ave  have  the  same  want  of  imagination  dis- 
guised by  more  masculine  qualities  of  mind,  and  grander  Teachings 
after  sympathy.  Thus  in  the  sacrifice  of  Isaac  in  our  OAvn  gallery, 
the  spirit  of  the  composition  is  solemn  rmd  unbroken ;  it  would 


OF   IMAGIxNATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


[pari  II 


have  been  a  grand  picture  if  the  forms  of  the  mass  of  foliage  on 
the  right,  and  of  the  clouds  in  the  centre,  had  not  been  hopeh^ssly 
unimaginative.  The  stormy  wind  of  the  picture  of  Dido  and  Eneas 
blows  loudly  through  its  leaves,  but  the  total  want  of  invention 
in  the  cloud  forms  bears  it  down  beyond  redemption.  The  fore- 
ground tree  of  the  La  Riccia  (compare  Part  II.  Sec.  VI.  Chap.  I. 
§  6.)  is  another  characteristic  instance  of  absolute  nullity  of  im 
figination. 

i  19.  Its  pre-  Salvator,  the  imagination  is  vigorous,  the  com- 

tor7 Vcoii^^"  position  dextrous  and  clever,  as  in  the  St.  Jerome  ol 
Trifcoret  ^^^^^  Gallery,  the  Diogenes  of  the  Pitti,  and  the 

pictures  of  the  Guadagni  palace.  All  are  rendered 
valueless  by  coarseness  of  feeling  and  habitual  non-reference  to 
nature. 

All  the  landscape  of  Nicolo  Poussin  is  imaginative,  but  the  de- 
velopment of  the  power  in  Tintoret  and  Titian  is  so  unapproach- 
ably intense  that  the  mind  unwillingly  rests  elsewhere.  The  four 
landscapes  which  occur  to  me  as  the  most  magnificently  charac- 
teristic are,  first,  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco 
(Tintoret ;)  secondly,  the  Titian  of  the  Camuccini  collection  at 
Rome,  with  the  figures  by  John  Bellini ;  thirdly,  Titian's  Saint  Je- 
I'ome,  in  the  Brera  Gallery  at  Milan ;  and  fourthly,  the  St.  Pietro 
Martire,  which  I  name  last,  in  spite  of  its  importance,  because 
there  is  something  unmeaning  and  unworthy  of  Titian  about  the 
undulation  of  the  trunks,  and  the  upper  part  of  it  is  destroyed  by 
the  intrusion  of  some  dramatic  clouds  of  that  species  which  I  have 
enouo'h  described  in  our  former  examination  of  the  central  cloud 

o 

region,  §  13. 

I  do  not  mean  to  set  these  four  works  above  the  rest  of  the 
landscape  of  these  masters ;  I  name  them  only  because  the  land- 
scape is  in  them  prominent  and  characteristic.  It  would  be  well 
to  compare  with  them  the  other  backgrounds  of  Tintoret  in  the 
Scuola,  especially  that  of  the  Temptation  and  the  Agony  in  the 
Garden,  and  the  landscape  of  the  two  large  pictures  m  the  church 
of  La  Madonna  delF  Orto. 

§  20.  And  Tur-      But  for  immediate  and  close  illustration,  it  is  per- 
haps  best  to  refer  to  a  work  more  accessible,  the 
Cephalus  and  Procris  of  Turner,  in  Liber  Studiorum. 

I  know  of  no  landscape  more  purely  or  magnificently  imagin^v 


sc.  11.  CII.  II.]  OF  IMAGINATION    ASSOCIATIVE.  1j7 

tive  or  bearing  more  distinct  evidence  of  the  relative  and  simulta- 
neous conception  of  the  parts.  Let  the  reader  first  cover  with  his 
hand  the  two  trunks  that  rise  against  the  sky  on  the  right,  and 
ask  himself  Low  any  termination  of  the  central  mass  so  ugly  as 
the  straight  trunk  which  he  will  then  painfully  see,  could  have 
been  conceived  or  admitted  Avithout  simultaneous  conception  of 
the  trunks  he  has  taken  away  on  the  right  ?  Let  him  again  con- 
ceal the  whole  central  mass,  and  leave  these  two  only,  and  again 
ask  himself  whether  anything  so  ugly  as  that  bare  trunk  in  the 
shape  of  a  Y,  could  have  been  admitted  without  reference  to  the 
central  mass  ?  Then  let  him  remove  from  this  trunk  its  two  arms, 
and  try  the  effect ;  let  him  again  remove  the  single  trunk  on  the 
extreme  right ;  then  let  him  try  the  third  trunk  without  the  ex- 
crescence at  the  bottom  of  it ;  finally,  let  him  conceal  the  fourth 
trunk  from  the  right,  wdth  the  slender  boughs  at  the  top ;  he  will 
find  in  each  case  that  he  has  destroyed  a  feature  on  w^hich  every- 
thing else  depends,  and  if  proof  be  required  of  the  vital  povver 
of  still  smaller  features,  let  him  remove  the  sunbeam  that  comes 
through  beneath  the  faint  mass  of  trees  on  the  hill  in  the  distance.** 

It  is  useless  to  enter  into  farther  particulars  ;  the  reader  may  be 
left  to  his  own  close  examination  of  this  and  of  the  other  works 
of  Turner,  in  which  he  will  always  find  the  associative  imagination 
developed  in  the  most  profuse  and  marvellous  modes,  especially 
in  the  drawing  of  foliage  and  skies,  in  both  of  which  the  presence 
or  absence  of  the  associative  power  may  best  be  tested  in  all  ar- 
tists. I  have,  however,  confined  my  present  illustrations  chiefly 
to  foiiage,  because  other  operations  of  the  imagination  besides  the 
associative,  interfere  extensively  in  the  treatment  of  sky. 

There  remains  but  one  question  to  be  determined  ^  21.  The  due 
relating  to  this  faculty,  what  operation,  namely,  sup-  go^j^'j.^j^"  tL-A^A. 
posinp^  it  possessed  in  hio^h  deo^ree,  it  has  or  ouQ-ht  to  ^'^fi"'^  ^^^'^'^  i"^'- 

*■  .       ^         .  o         &       '  O  spec  t  to  nature. 

have  in  the  artist's  treatment  of  natural  scener3^ 

I  have  just  said  that  nature  is  always  imaginative,  but  it  does 
not  follow  that  her  imagination  is  always  of  high  subject,  or  that 
the  imagination  of  all  the  parts  is  of  a  like  and  sympath(itic  kind ; 
the  boughs  of  every  bramble  bush  are  imaginatively  arranged,  so 
ure  those  of  every  oak  and  cedar ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  there 

*  Tliis  ray  of  light,  however,  has  an  imaginative  power  of  another  kind, 
presently  to  be  spoken  of.    Corapare  Chap.  IV.  ^  18. 


158 


OF  IMAGINATION  ASSOCIATIVE. 


[]^ART  in 


is  imaginative  sympathy  between  bramble  and  cedar.  There  are 
few  natural  scenes  whose  harmonies  are  not  conceivably  improva- 
ble either  by  banishment  of  some  discordant  point,  or  by  addition 
of  some  sympathetic  one ;  it  constantly  happens  that  there  is  a 
profuseness  too  great  to  be  comprehended,  or  an  inequality  in  the 
pitcli,  meaning,  and  intensity  of  different  parts.  The  imagination 
will  banish  all  that  is  extraneous,  it  will  seize  out  of  the  many 
threads  of  different  feeling  which  nature  has  suffered  to  become 
entangled,  one  only,  and  where  that  seems  thin  and  likely  to  break, 
it  will  spin  it  stouter,  and  in  doing  this,  it  never  knots,  but  weaves 
in  the  new  thread,  so  that  all  its  work  looks  as  pure  and  true  as 
nature  itself,  and  cannot  be  guessed  from  it  but  by  its  exceeding 
simplicity,  {known  from  it,  it  cannot  be,)  so  that  herein  we  find 
another  test  of  the  imaginative  work,  that  it  looks  always  as  if  it 
had  been  gathered  straight  from  nature,  whereas  the  unimagina- 
tive shows  its  joints  and  knots,  and  is  visibly  composition. 
^  .        And  here  then  we  arrive  at  an  important  conclusion 

$  22.  The  sign  ^ 

of  iinasrinative  (thouo^h  oue  somcwhat  coutrarv  to  the  positions  com- 

work  is  its  tip-    ^  '  «/  j. 

peannce  of  ab  monly  held  on  the  subject,)  namely,  that  if  anything 
boiute  truth.  \qq\^  unnatural,  there  can  be  no  imagination  in  it  (at 
least  not  associative.)  We  frequently  hear  works  that  have  no 
truth  in  them,  justified  or  elevated  on  the  score  of  being  imagina- 
tive. Let  it  be  understood  once  for  all,  that  imagination  never 
designs  to  touch  anything  but  truth,  and  though  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  where  there  is  the  appearance  of  truth,  there  has  been 
imaginative  operation,  of  this  we  may  be  assured,  that  where  there 
is  appearance  of  falsehood,  the  imagination  has  had  no  hand."^' 

Tor  instance,  the  landscape  above  mentioned  of  Titian's  St. 
Jerome  may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  a  pure  transcript  of  a  rocky 
slope  covered  with  chestnuts  among  his  native  mountains.  It  has 
all  the  look  of  a  sketch  from  nature  ;  if  it  be  not,  the  imagination 
developed  in  it  is  of  the  highest  order ;  if  it  be,  the  imagination 
has  only  acted  in  the  suggestion  of  the  dark  sky,  of  the  shape  of 
the  flakes  of  solemn  cloud,  and  of  the  gleam  of  russet  light  along 
the  distant  ground.f 

*  Compare  Chap.  TIL  ()  30. 

f  It  is  said  at  Venice  that  Titian  took  the  trees  of  the  St,  Pietro  Martiere 
;uit  of  his  garden  opposite  Murano.  I  think  this  unHkely  ;  there  is  something 
about  the  lower  trunks  that  has  a  taint  of  composition :  the  thought  of  the 


sc.  II.  CH.  II.  I         OF  IMAGINATIO^'  ASSOCIATIVE. 


159 


Again,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  whether  the  two  nearest  trunks  of 
the  ^sacus  and  Hesperie  of  the  Liber  Studiorum,  especially  the 
large  one  on  the  right  with  the  ivy,  have  been  invented,  or  taken 
straight  from  nature,  they  have  all  the  look  of  accurate  portraiture. 
I  can  hardly  imagine  anything  so  perfect  to  have  been  obtained 
except  from  the  real  thing ;  but  we  know  that  the  imagination 
must  have  begun  to  operate  somewhere,  we  cannot  tell  where, 
since  the  multitudinous  harmonies  of  the  rest  of  the  picture  could 
hardly  in  any  real  scene  have  continued  so  inviolately  sweet. 

The  final  tests,  therefore,  of  the  work  of  associative  imagination 
are  its  intense  simplicity,  its  perfect  harmony,  and  its  absolute 
truth.  It  may  be  a  harmony,  majestic,  or  humble,  abrupt,  or  pro- 
longed, but  it  is  always  a  governed  and  perfect  whole,  evidencing 
in  all  its  relations  the  weight,  prevalence,  and  universal  dominion 
of  an  awful,  inexplicable  power ;  a  chastising,  animating,  and  dis- 
posing mind. 

whole,  however,  is  thoroughly  fine.  The  backgrounds  of  the  frescoes  at  Pa- 
dua are  also  very  characteristic,  and  the  well-known  wood-cut  of  St.  Francis 
receiving  the  stigmata,  one  of  the  mightiest  of  existing  landscape  thoughts  j 
and  yet  it  is  pure  portraiture  of  pine  and  Spanish  chestnut. 


CHAPTER  III. 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


§  1.  imagina-  Thus  far  YiQ  have  been  defining  that  combining 
b'^coucerned^^  opcratiou  of  the  imagination,  which  appears  to  be  in 
not  with  the  a  sort  mechanical,  yet  takes  place  in  the  same  inex- 

corabining  but  /  ,  , 

apprehending  plicable  mocles,  whatever  be  the  order  of  conception 
submitted  to  it,  though  I  chose  to  illustrate  it  by  its 
dealings  with  mere  matter  before  taking  cognizance  of  any  nobler 
subjects  of  imagery.  We  must  now  examine  the  dealing  of  the 
imagination  with  its  separate  conceptions,  and  endeavor  to  under- 
stand not  only  its  principles  of  selection,  but  its  modes  of  appre- 
hension with  respect  to  what  it  selects. 

§  2.  Milton's  When  Milton's  Satan  first  "  rears  from  off  the  pool, 
ecrij^ion'^  of  liis  mighty  staturc,"  the  image  of  Leviathan  before 
iianie.  Suggested  not  being  yet  abandoned,  the  effect  on  the 

fire-wave  is  described  as  of  the  upheaved  monster  on  the  ocean 
stream. 

"  On  each  hand  the  flames, 
Driven  backwards,  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  in  the  midst  a  horrid  vale.'* 

And  then  follows  a  fiercely  restless  piece  of  volcanic  imagery : 

"  As  when  the  force 
Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 
Torn  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  ^tna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuell'd  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 
Sublimed  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds, 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom,  all  involved 
With  stench  and  smoke ;  such  resting  found  the  sole 
Of  unblest  feet." 


Yet  I  think  all  this  is  too  far  detailed,  and  deals  too  much  with 
externals ;  w^e  feel  rather  the  form  of  the  fire-waves  than  their  fury, 


so.  II.  CH.  III.]        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVK, 


161 


we  walk  upon  them  too  securely,  and  the  fuel,  sublimation,  smoke, 
and  singeing,  seem  to  me  images  only  of  partial  combustion ;  they 
vary  and  extend  the  conception,  but  they  lower  the  thermometer. 
Look  back,  if  you  will,  and  add  to  the  description  the  glimmering 
of  the  livid  flames  ;  tlie  sulphurous  hail  and  red  lightning  ;  yet  ail 
together,  however  they  overwhelm  us  with  horror,  fail  of  making 
us  thoroughly,  unendurably  hot.  The  ii: tense  essence  of  flame 
has  not  been  given.    Now  hear  Dante : — 

"  Feriami  '1  Sole  in  su  Tomero  destro 
Che  gi^  raggiando  tutto  I'Occidente 
Miitava  in  bianco  aspetto  di  cilest/ro. 
Ed  io  face  a  con  Vombra  piu  rovente 
Parer  la  jiammaP 

That  is  a  slight  touch  ;  he  has  not  gone  to  JEtna  nor  Pelorus 
for  fuel ;  but  we  shall  not  soon  recover  from  it — he  has  taken  our 
breath  away  and  leaves  us  gasping.  No  smoke  nor  cinders  there. 
Pure,  white,  hurtling,  formless  flame  ;  very  fire  crystal,  we  can 
not  make  spires  nor  waves  of  it,  nor  divide  it,  nor  walk  on  it,  there 
is  no  question  about  singeing  soles  of  feet.  It  is  lambent  an- 
nihilation. 

Such  is  always  the  mode  in  which  the  hio^hest  ,  „  rm,  • 

■J  o  §  3.  The  una 

imap'inative  faculty  seizes  its  materials.    It  never  stops  gination  seizes 

^  ,  ,  .  ^  1  •    1    •     always  by  the 

at  crusts  or  ashes,  or  outward  images  oi  any  kind,  it  innermost 
ploughs  them  all  aside,  and  plunges  into  the  very 
central  fiery  heart,  nothing  else  will  content  its  spirituality,  what- 
ever semblances  and  various  outward  shows  and  phases  its  subject 
may  possess,  go  for  nothing,  it  gets  within  all  fence,  cuts  down 
to  the  root,  and  drinks  the  very  vital  sap  of  that  it  deals  with : 
once  there  it  is  at  liberty  to  throw  up  what  new  shoots  it  will, 
so  always  that  the  true  juice  and  sap  be  in  them,  and  to  prune 
and  twist  them  at  its  pleasure,  and  bring  them  to  fairer  fruit  than 
grew  on  the  old  tree  ;  but  all  this  pruning  and  twisting  is  work 
that  it  likes  not,  and  often  does  ill ;  its  function  and  gift  are  the 
getting  at  the  root,  its  nature  and  dignity  depend  on  its  holding 
things  always  by  the  heart.  Take  its  hand  from  off*  the  beating 
of  that,  and  it  will  prophesy  no  longer ;  it  looks  not  in  the  eyes, 
it  judg  ».s  not  by  the  voice,  it  describes  not  by  outward  features, 
all  that  it  affirms,  judges,  or  describes,  it  aftirms  from  within. 


102 


OF  IMAGINATION  PEMETRATIVE. 


[part  ni 


§  4.  It  acta  in-  ^^'-^J  seem  to  the  reader  that  I  am  incorrect  in 

^thouueason-  ^alUiig  this  penetrating,  possession-taking  faculty, 
^^S'  imagination.    Be  it  so,  the  name  is  of  little  conse- 

quence ;  the  faculty  itself,  called  by  what  name  we  will,  I  insist 
upon  as  the  highest  intellectual  power  of  man.  There  is  no  rea- 
soning in  it,  it  works  not  by  algebra,  nor  by  integral  calculus,  it 
is  a  piercing,  Pholas-like  mind's  tongue  that  works  and  tastes  into 
the  very  rock  heart,  no  matter  what  be  the  subject  submitted  to 
it,  substance  or  spirit,  all  is  alike,  divided  asunder,  joint  and  mar- 
row, whatever  utmost  truth,  life,  principle,  it  has,  laid  bare,  and 
that  which  has  no  truth,  life,  nor  principle,  dissipated  into  its 
original  smoke  at  a  touch.  The  whispers  at  men's  ears  it  lifts  into 
visible  angels.  Vials  that  have  lain  sealed  in  the  deep  sea  a 
thousand  years  it  unseals,  and  brings  out  of  them  Genii. 

Every  great  conception  of  poet  or  painter  is  held  and  treated 
by  this  faculty.  Every  character  that  is  so  much  as  touched  by 
men  like  JEschylus,  Homer,  Dante,  or  Shakspeare,  is  by  them 
held  by  the  heart ;  and  every  circumstance  or  sentence  of  their 
being,  speaking,  or  seeming,  is  seized  by  process  from  within,  and 
is  referred  to  that  inner  secret  spring  of  which  the  hold  is  never 
lost  for  an  instant ;  so  that  every  sentence,  as  it  has  been  thought 
out  from  the  heart,  opens  for  us  a  way  down  to  the  heart,  leads 
us  to  the  centre,  and  then  leaves  us  to  gather  what  more  we  may ; 
it  is  the  open  sesame  of  a  huge,  obscure,  endless  cave,  with  inex- 
haustible treasure  of  pure  gold  scattered  in  it :  the  wandering 
about  and  gathering  the  pieces  may  be  left  to  any  of  us,  all  can 
accomplisli  that ;  but  the  first  opening  of  that  invisible  door  in  the 
rock  is  of  the  imagination  only. 

^  5.  Signs  of  it  Hcnco  there  is  in  every  word  set  down  by  the  ima- 
in  language.  ginativo  mind  an  awful  under-current  of  meaning,  and 
evidence  and  shadow  upon  it  of  the  deep  places  out  of  which  it 
has  come.  It  is  often  obscure,  often  half  told,  for  he  who  wrote 
it,  in  his  clear  seeing  of  the  things  beneath,  may  have  been  impa- 
tient of  detailed  interpretation,  but  if  we  choose  to  dwell  upon  it 
ind  trace  it,  it  will  leads  us  always  securely  back  to  that  metro- 
polis of  the  soul's  dominion  from  which  we  may  follow  out  all  the 
ways  and  tracks  to  its  farthest  coasts. 

I  think  the  "  Quel  giorno  piu  non  vi  leggemmo  avante"  of 
Francesca  di  Kimini,  and  the  "He  has  no  children"  of  Macduff, 


sc.  II.  CH.  III.]        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


163 


are  as  fine  instances  as  can  be  given,  but  tlie  sign  and  mark  of  ii 
are  visible  on  every  line  of  the  four  great  men  above  instanced. 
The  imasrinative  writer,  on  the  other  hand,  as  he  „ 

'  '  §  6.  Absence  of 

has  never  pierced  to  the  heart,  so  he  can  never  touch  imagination, 

.  p  ,     ,  .  .        ,  how  shown. 

it  :  II  he  has  to  paint  a  passion,  he  remembers  the  ex- 
ternal signs  of  H,  he  collects  expressions  of  it  from  other  writers, 
he  searches  for  similes,  he  composes,  exaggerates,  heaps  term  on 
term,  figure  on  figure,  till  we  groan  beneath  the  cold,,  disjointed 
heap ;  but  it  is  all  faggot  and  no  fire,  the  life  breath  is  not  in  it, 
his  passion  has  the  form  of  the  Leviatlian,  but  it  never  makes  the 
deep  boil,  he  fastens  us  all  at  anchor  in  the  scaly  rind  of  it,  our 
sympathies  remain  as  idle  as  a  painted  ship  upon  a  painted  ocean. 

And  that  virtue  of  originality  that  men  so  strain  after,  is  not 
newness,  as  they  vainly  think,  (there  is  nothing  new,)  it  is  only 
genuineness  ;  it  all  depends  on  this  single  glorious  faculty  of  get- 
ting to  the  spring  of  things  and  working  out  from  that ;  it  is  the 
coolness,  and  clearness,  and  deliciousness  of  the  water  fresh  from 
the  fountain  head,  opposed  to  the  thick,  hot,  unrefreshing  drain- 
age from  other  men's  meadows. 

This  freshness,  however,  is  not  to  be  taken  for  an  §  7.  Distinction 
infallible  sign  of  imagination,  inasmuch  as  it  results  and^^' 
also  from  a  vivid  operation  of  fancy,  whose  parallel 
function  to  this  division  of  the  imaginative  faculty  it  is  here  ne- 
cessary to  distinguish. 

I  believe  it  will  be  found  that  the  entirely  unimaginative  mind 
aees  nothing  of  the  object  it  has  to  dwell  upon  or  describe,  and  is 
therefore  utterly  unable,  as  it  is  blind  itself,  to  set  anythmg  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  reader.'^ 

The  fancy  sees  the  outside,  and  is  able  to  give  a  portrait  of  the 
outside,  clear,  brilliant,  and  full  of  detail.f 

The  imagination  sees  the  heart  and  inner  nature,  and  makes 
them  felt,  but  is  often  obscure,  mysterious,  and  interrupted,  in  its 
giving  of  outer  detail. 

Take  an  instance.  A  writer  with  neither  imagination  nor  fancy, 
describing  a  fair  lip,  does  not  see  it,  but  thinks  about  it,  and  about 
what  is  said  of  it,  and  calls  it  well-turned,  or  rosy,  or  delicate,  or 

*  Compare  Arist.  Rhet.  III.  11. 

f  For  the  distinc  ion  between  fancy  and  simple  conception ;  sec  Chap.  IV 

^3. 


164 


OF   IMAGINATION   PENETUATI VE. 


[part  III 


lovely,  or  afflicts  us  with  some  other  quenching  and  chilling  epi- 
thet.   Now  hear  fancy  speak, — 

"  Her  lips  v/ere  red,  and  one  was  thin.j 
Compared  with  that  was?  next  her  chin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly."* 

The  real,  red,  bright  being  of  the  lip  is  there  in  a  moment.  But 
it  is  all  outside ;  no  expression  yet,  no  mind.  Let  us  go  a  step 
fartlier  with  Warner,  of  fair  Rosamond  struck  by  Eleanor. 

"  With  that  she  dashed  her  on  the  lips 
So  dyed  double  red ; 

Hard  was  the  heart  that  gave  the  blow, 
Soft  were  those  Hps  that  bled." 

The  tenderness  of  mind  begins  to  mingle  with  the  outside  color, 
the  imagination  is  seen  in  its  awakening.    Next  Shelley,— 

"  Lamp  of  life,  thy  lips  are  burning 
Through  the  veil  that  seems  to  hide  them, 
As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 
Through  thin  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them." 

There  dawns  the  entire  soul  in  that  morning ;  yet  we  may  stop 
if  w^e  choose  at  the  image  still  external,  at  the  crimson  clouds. 
The  imagination  is  contemplative  rather  than  penetrative.  Last, 
hear  Hamlet, — 

"  Here  hung  those  hps  that  I  have  kissed,  I  know  not  how  oft. 
Where  be  your  gibes  novv,  your  gambols,  your  songs,  your  flashes 
of  merriment  that  Avere  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ?" 

There  is  the  essence  of  lip,  and  the  full  power  of  the  imagination. 

Again,  compare  Milton's  flowers  in  Lycidas  with  Perdita's.  In 

*  I  take  this  and  the  next  instance  from  Leigh  Hunt's  admirable  piece  of 
criticism,  "  Liiagination  and  Fancy,"  which  ought  to  be  read  with  care,  and 
to  which,  though  somewhat  loosely  arranged,  I  may  refer  for  all  the  filling  up 
and  illustration  that  the  subject  requires.  With  respect  to  what  has  just  been 
said  respecting  want  of  imagination,  compare  his  criticism  of  Addison's  Cato, 
p.  28.  I  cannot,  however,  confirm  his  judgment,  nor  admit  his  selection  of 
instances,  among  painters  :  he  has  looked  to  their  manner  only  and  habi'ual 
choice  of  subject,  without  feeUng  their  power;  and  has  given  work  to  the 
coarseness,  mindlessness,  and  eclecticism  of  Guido  and  the  Carracci,  which  in 
its  poetical  demand  of  tenderness  might  have  foiled  Pinturicchio,  of  dignity 
Leonardo  and  of  color,  Giorgione. 


BO.  II.  CH.  III.]         01    IxMAGlxN  ATlON  PENETRATIVE. 


166 


Milton  it  happens,  I  think,  generally,  and  in  the  case  before  us 
most  certainly,  that  the  imagination  is  mixed  and  broken  with 
fancy,  and  so  the  strength  of  the  imagery  is  part  of  iron  and  pari 
of  clay. 

"  Bring  the  rathe  primrose,  that  forsaken  dies  (Imagination) 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine,  (Nugatory) 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, —  (Fancy) 
The  glowing  violet,  (Imagination) 

The  musk  rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine.  (Fancy,  vulgar) 
With  cowslips  wan,  that  hang  the  pensive  head,  (Imagination) 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears."  (Mixed) 

Then  hear  Perdita : — 

"  O,  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon.  Daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  JMarch  with  beauty.    Violets,  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath ;  pale  primroses 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids." 

Observe  how  the  imagination  in  these  last  lines  goes  into  the 
very  inmost  soial  of  every  flower,  after  having  touched  them  all 
at  first  with  that  heavenly  timidness,  the  shadow  of  Proserpine's; 
and  gilded  them  with  celestial  gatliering,  and  never  stops  on  their 
spots,  or  their  bodily  shape,  while  Milton  sticks  in  the  stains  upon 
them,  and  puts  us  off  with  thai  unhappy  freak  of  jet  in  the  very 
flower  that  without  this  bit  of  paper-staining  would  have  been 
the  most  precious  to  us  of  all.  "  There  is  pansies,  that's  for 
thoughts." 

So  1  believe  it  will  be  found  throuo^hout  the  opera- 

^.  ^  .         §  8.  Fancy  how 

tion  of  the  fancy,  that  it  has  to  do  with  the  outsides  involved  with 

n    t  •  1-  1  -1        n   ^  '      ^  imagination, 

01  thmgs,  and  is  content  therewith :  oi  this  there  can 
be  no  doubt  in  such  passages  as  that  description  of  Mab,  so  often 
given  as  an  illustration  of  it,  and  many  other  instances  will  be 
found  in  Leigh  Hunt's  work  already  referred  to.  Only  some  em- 
barrassment is  caused  by  passages  in  which  fancy  is  seizing  the 
outward  signs  of  emotion,  understanding  tnem  as  such,  and  yet, 
in  pursuance  of  her  proper  function,  taking  for  her  share,  and  foi 


166 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  III, 


that  which  she  chooses  to  dwell  upon,  the  outside  sign  rather  than 
the  emotion.    Note  in  Macbeth  that  brilliant  instance. 

Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  people  cold." 

The  outwai'd  shiver  and  coldness  of  fear  is  seized  on,  and  irreg 
ularly  but  admirably  attributed  by  the  fancy  to  the  drift  of  the 
banners.  Compare  Solomon's  Song,  where  the  imagination  stays 
not  at  the  outside,  but  dwells  on  the  fearful  emotion  itself  ? 

''Wliois  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning;  fair  as  the 
moon,  clear  as  the  sun,  and  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners  ?" 
§  9.  Fancy  is  Now,  if  tliis  be  the  prevailing  characteristic  of  the 
never  serious.  ^^^.^  faculties,  it  is  evident  that  certain  other  collateral 
differences  will  result  from  it.  Fancy,  as  she  stays  at  the  exter- 
nals, can  never  feel.  She  is  one  of  the  hardest  hearted  of  the  in- 
tellectual faculties,  or  rather  one  of  the  most  purely  and  simply 
intellectual.  She  cannot  be  made  serious,^'  no  edge-tools  but 
she  will  play  with ;  whereas  the  imagination  is  in  all  things  the 
reverse.  She  cannot  be  but  serious  ;  she  sees  too  far,  too  darkly, 
too  solemnly,  too  earnestly,  ever  to  smile.  There  is  something  in 
the  heart  of  everything,  if  we  can  reach  it,  that  we  shall  not  be 
inclined  to  laugh  at.  The  avr^oid^ov  yilaofAa  of  the  sea  is  on  its 
surface,  not  in  the  deep. 

,  ^     And  thus  there  is  reciprocal  action  between  the 

§  10.  Want  of  ^ 

Beriousness  the  int-e^iisitv  of  moral  feelino;  and  the  power  of  imaofina- 

bar  to  high  art     .  /  ^  i       i     i  i      i  i 

at  the  present  tioii ;  for,  Oil  the  One  naiid,  those  who  have  keenest 
sympathy  are  those  who  look  closest  and  pierce 
deepest,  and  hold  securest ;  and,  on  the  other,  those  who  have  so 
pierced  and  seen  the  melancholy  deeps  of  things,  are  filled  with 
the  most  intense  passion  and  gentleness  of  sympathy.  Hence,  I 
suppose  that  the  powers  of  the  imagination  may  always  be  tested 
by  accompanying  tenderness  of  emotion,  and  thus,  (as  Byron 
said,)  there  is  no  tenderness  like  Dante's,  neither  any  intensity 
nor  seriousness  like  his,  such  seriousness  that  it  is  incapable  of 
perceiving  that  which  is  commonplace  or  ridiculous,  but  fuses  all 
down  into  its  white-hot  fire ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  suppose 
the  chief  bar  to  the  action  of  imagination,  and  stop  to  all  great- 

*  Fancy,  in  her  third  function  may,  however,  become  senous,  and  gradually 
ri3e  into  imagination  in  dcing  so.    Compare  Chap.  IV.  ^  5. 


sc.  II.  CH.  III.]        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


167 


ness  in  tliis  present  age  of  ours,  is  its  mean  and  shallow  love  of 
jest  and  jeer,  so  that  if  there  be  in  any  good  and  lofty  work  a 
flaw  or  failing,  or  undipped  vulnerable  part  where  sarcasm  may 
stick  or  stay,  it  is  caught  at,  and  pointed  at,  and  buzzed  about, 
and  fixed  upon,  and  stung  into,  as  a  recent  wound  is  by  flies,  and 
nothing  is  ever  taken  seriously  nor  as  it  was  meant,  but  ahvays,  if 
it  may  be,  turned  the  wrong  Avay,  and  misunderstood ;  and  while 
this  is  so,  there  is  not,  nor  cannot  be  any  hope  of  achievement  of 
high  things  ;  men  dare  not  open  their  hearts  to  us,  if  we  are  to 
broil  them  on  a  tliorn-fire. 

This,  then,  is  one  essential  difterence  between  imao-- 

•  1  r-  1  1       •    i-T      •         1  ^     §11.  Imagma- 

mation  and  lancy,  and  another  is  like  it  and  resultant  tion  is  quiet ; 
from  it,  that  the  imagination  being  at  the  heart  of 
things,  poises  herself  there,  and  is  still,  quiet,  and  brooding ; 
comprehending  all  around  her  with  her  fixed  look,  but  the  fancy 
staying  at  the  outside  of  things,  cannot  see  them  all  at  once,  but 
runs  hither  and  thither,  and  round  and  about  to  see  more  and 
more,  bounding  merrily  from  point  to  point,  and  glittering  here 
and  there,  but  necessarily  always  settling,  if  she  settle  at  all,  on 
a  point  only,  never  embracing  the  whole.  And  from  these  single 
points  she  can  strike  out  analogies  and  catch  resemblances, 
which,  so  far  as  the  point  she  looks  at  is  concerned,  are  true,  but 
would  be  false,  if  she  could  see  througli  to  the  other  side.  This, 
however,  she  cares  not  to  do,  the  point  of  contact  is  enough  for 
her,  and  even  if  there  be  a  gap  left  between  the  two  things  and 
they  do  not  quite  touch,  she  will  spring  from  one  to  the  other  like 
an  electric  spark,  and  be  seen  brightest  in  her  leaping. 

Now  these  differences  between  the  imaoination  and  ^ 

§  32.   The  de 

the  fancy  hold,  not  only  in  the  way  they  lay  hold  of  tailing  opera 

.  .  -1  tiouoffancv, 

separate  conceptions,  but  even  m  the  points  they  oc- 
cupy of  time,  for  the  fancy  loves  to  run  hither  and  thither  in  time, 
and  to  follow  long  chains  of  circumstances  from  link  to  link  ;  but 
the  imagination,  if  it  may,  gets  holds  of  a  moment  or  link  in  the 
middle  that  implies  all  the  rest,  and  fastens  there.  Hence  Fuseli's 
aphorism,  "  Invention  never  suflers  the  action  to  expire,  nor  the 
spectator's  fancy  to  consume  itself  in  preparation,  or  stagnate 
into  repose.  It  neither  begins  from  the  egg,  nor  coldly  gathers 
the  remains." 

In  Retsch's  illustrations  to  Schiller's  Kampf  mit  dera  Drachen, 


168  OF  IM..GINATICN  PENETRATIVE.  [PART  III 


we  have  an  instance,  miserably  feeble  indeed,  but  characteristic^ 
and  suited  to  our  present  purpose,  of  the  detailing,  finishing 
action  of  the  fancy.  The  dragon  is  drawn  from  head  to  tail,  vul- 
ture eyes,  serpent  teeth,  forked  tongue,  fiery  crest,  armor,  claws, 
and  coils  as  grisly  as  may  be  ;  his  den  is  drawn,  and  all  the  dead 
bones  in  it,  and  all  the  savage  forest-country  about  it  far  and 
wide  ;  we  have  him  from  the  beginning  of  his  career  to  the  end, 
devouring,  rampant,  victorious  over  whole  armies,  gorged  with 
death  ;  we  are  present  at  all  the  preparations  for  his  attack,  see 
him  receive  his  death-wound,  and  our  anxieties  are  finally  be- 
calmed by  seeing  him.  lie  peaceably  dead  on  his  back. 

,  ,  All  the  time  we  have  never  g-ot  into  the  draQ:on 

§  13.  And  sug-  ^  .  ^ 

gestive,  of  the  heart,  we  have  never  once  felt  real  pervading  horror, 
nor  sense  of  the  creature's  beinof ;  it  is  throusfhout 
nothing  but  an  ugly  composition  of  claw  and  scale.  Now  take 
up  Turner's  Jason,  Liber  Studiorum,  and  observe  how  the  imag- 
ination can  concentrate  all  this,  and  infinitely  more,  into  one  mo- 
ment. No  far  forest  country,  no  secret  paths,  nor  cloven  hills, 
nothing  but  a  gleam  of  pale  horizontal  sky,  that  broods  over 
pleasant  places  far  away,  and  sends  in,  through  the  wild  over- 
growth of  tlie  thicket,  a  ray  of  broken  daylight  into  the  hopeless 
pit.  No  Haunting  plumes  nor  brandished  lances,  but  stern  pur- 
pose in  the  turn  of  the  crestless  helmet,  visible  victory  in  the 
drawing  back  of  the  prepared  right  arm  behind  the  steady  point. 
No  more  claws,  nor  teeth,  nor  manes,  nor  stinging  tails.  We 
have  the  dragon,  like  everything  else,  by  the  middle.  We  need 
see  no  more  of  him.  All  his  horror  is  in  that  fearful,  slow,  gri- 
ding upheaval  of  the  single  coil.  Spark  after  spark  of  it,  ring 
after  ring,  is  sliding  into  the  light,  the  slow  glitter  steals  along 
him  step  by  step,  broader  and  broader,  a  lighting  of  funeral 
lamps  one  by  one,  quicker  and  quicker  ;  a  moment  more,  and  he 
is  out  upon  us,  all  crash  and  blaze  among  those  broken  trunks ; — 
but  he  will  be  nothing  then  to  what  he  is  now. 
§  14  This  sng-  Now,  it  is  nccessary  here  very  carefully  to  distin- 
^pJoIed'to^T  g^iisli  between  that  character  of  the  work  which  de- 
cancy.  pends  on  the  imagination  of  the  beholder,  and  that 

which  results  from  the  imagination  of  the  artist,  for  a  work  is 
often  called  imaginative  when  it  merely  leaves  room  for  the  action 
of  the  imagination  ;  whereas  though  nearly  all  imaginative  works 


6C.  II.  CH.  III.]         OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


169 


do  this,  yet  it  may  be  done  also  by  works  that  have  in  them  no 
imagination  at  ail.  A  few  shapeless  scratches  or  accidental  stains 
on  a  wall ;  or  the  forms  of  clouds,  or  any  other  complicated  ac- 
cidents, will  set  the  imagination  to  work  to  coin  something  out 
of  them,  and  all  paintings  in  which  there  is  much  gloom  or  mys- 
tery, possess  therein  a  certain  sublimity  owing  to  the  play  given 
to  the  beholder's  imagination,  without,  necessarily,  being  in  the 
slightest  degree  imaginative  themselves.  The  vacancy  of  a  truly 
imaginative  work  results  not  from  absence  of  ideas,  or  incapabil- 
ity of  grasping  and  detailing  them,  but  from  the  painter  having 
told  the  whole  pith  and  power  of  his  subject  and  disdaining  to 
tell  more,  and  the  sio-n  of  this  beino;  the  case  is,  that  the  imaoina- 
tion  of  the  beholder  is  forced  tc  a'^t  ii:  a  certain  mode,  and  feels 
itself  overpowered  and  borne  away  by  .^hat  of  the  painter,  and  not 
able  to  defend  itself,  nor  go  which  way  it  will,  and  the  value  of 
the  work  depends  on  the  truth,  authority,  and  inevitability  of  this 
suggestiveness,  and  on  the  absolute  right  choice  of  the  critical 
moment.  Now  observe  in  this  work  of  Turner's,  that  the  whole 
value  of  it  depends  on  the  character  of  curve  assumed  b}^  the 
serpent's  body  ;  for  had  it  been  a  mere  semicircle,  or  gone  down 
in  a  series  of  smaller  coils,  it  would  have  been  in  the  first  case, 
ridiculous,  as  false  and  unlike  a  serpent,  and  in  the  second,  dis- 
gusting, nothing  more  than  an  exaggerated  viper,  but  it  is  that 
coming  straight  at  the  right  hand  which  suggests  the  drawing 
forth  of  an  enormous  weight,  and  gives  the  bent  part  its  springing 
look,  that  frio'htens  us.  Aofain,  remove  the  lii^ht  trunk"^'  on  tlie 
left,  and  observe  how  useless  all  the  gloom  of  the  picture  would 
have  been,  if  tliis  trunk  had  not  given  it  depth  and  holloimess. 
Finally  and  chiefly,  observe  that  the  painter  is  not  satisfied  even 
with  all  the  suggestiveness  thus  obtained,  but  to  make  sure  of  us, 
and  force  us,  whether  we  will  or  no,  to  walk  his  way,  and  not  ours, 
the  trunks  of  the  trees  on  the  right  are  ail  cloven  into  yawning 
and  writhing  heads  and  bodies,  and  alive  with  dragon  energy  all 
about  us,  note  especially  the  nearest  with  its  gaping  jaws  and 
claw-like  branch  at  the  seeming  shoulder ;  a  kind  of  suggestion 
which  in  itself  is  not  imaginative,  but  merely  fanciful,  (using  the 
term  fcincyin  that  third  sense  not  yet  explained,  corresponding  to 
the  third  office  of  imagination ;)  but  it  is  imaginative  in  its  present 

*  I  am  describing  from  a  proof:  in  bad  impresstons  this  trunk  is  darkened. 
'OL.  ir.  8 


170 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  iri» 


use  and  application,  for  the  painter  addresses  thereby  that  morbid 
and  fearful  condition  of  mind  which  he  has  endeavored  to  excite 
in  the  spectator,  and  which  in  reality  would  have  seen  in  every 
trunk  and  bough,  as  it  penetrated  into  the  deeper  thicket,  the  ob- 
ject of  its  terror. 

5  15.  imagina-  It  is  nevertheless  evident,  that  however  sufrgestive 
itsdf  to  Imagi-  ^^^^  work  or  picture  may  be,  it  cannot  have  effect  un- 
nation.  j^^g  oursolves  both  watchful  of  its  very  hint, 

and  capable  of  understanding  and  carrying  it  out,  and  although  I 
think  that  this  power  of  continuing  or  accepting  the  direction  of 
feeling  given  is  less  a  peculiar  gift,  like  that  of  the  original  seizing, 
than  a  faculty  dependent  on  attention,  and  improvable  by  cultiva- 
tion ;  yet,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  imaginative  work  will  not,  I 
think,  be  rightly  esteemed  except  by  a  mind  of  some  correspond- 
ing power  ;  not  but  that  there  is  an  intense  enjoyment  in  minds  of 
feeble  yet  light  conception  in  the  help  and  food  they  get  from 
those  of  stronger  thought ;  but  a  certain  imaginative  susceptibility 
is  at  any  rate  necessary,  and  above  all  things,  earnestness  and  feel- 
ing, so  that  assuredly  a  work  of  high  conceptive  dignity  will  be 
always  incomprehensible  and  valueless  except  in  those  who  go  to 
it  in  earnest  and  give  it  time ;  and  this  is  peculiarly  the  case  when 
the  imagination  acts  not  merely  on  the  immediate  subject,  nor  in 
giving  a  fanciful  and  peculiar  character  to  prominent  objects,  as  we 
have  just  seen,  but  busies  itself  throughout  in  expressing  occult 
and  far-sought  sympathies  in  every  minor  detail,  of  which  action 
the  most  sublime  instances  are  found  in  the  works  of 

Instances  from  ,  .  .        ^  .        .      .       .  ,  , 

the  works  of  iintoret,  whoso  mtensity  oi  imagmation  is  such  that 
Tintoret.  there  is  not  the  commonest  subject  to  which  he  will 
not  attach  a  range  of  suggestiveness  almost  limitless,  nor  a  stone, 
leaf,  or  shadow,  nor  anything  so  small,  but  he  wull  give  it  mean- 
ing and  oracular  voice. 

§  16  The  En-  ^^^^  Centre  of  the  gallery  at  Parma,  there  is  a 

tombment.  canvas  of  Tintoret's,  w^hose  sublimity  of  conception 
and  grandeur  of  color  are  seen  in  the  highest  perfection,  by  their 
opposition  to  the  morbid  and  vulgar  sentimental  ism  of  Correggio. 
It  is  an  Entombment  of  Christ,  with  a  landscape  distance,  of 
whose  technical  composition  and  details  I  shall  have  much  to  say 
hereafter,  at  present  I  speak  only  of  the  thought  it  is  intended  to 
convey.    An  ordinary  or  unimaginative  painter  would  have  made 


SC-  II.  CH.  III.]         OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


171 


prominent,  among  his  objects  of  landscape,  such  as  miglit  natu- 
rally be  supposed  to  have  been  visible  from  the  sepulchre,  and 
shown  with  the  crosses  of  Calvary,  some  portion  of  Jerusalem,  or 
of  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  But  Tint  or  et  has  a  far  higher 
aim.  Dwelling  on  the  peculiar  force  of  the  event  before  him,  as 
the  fulfilment  of  the  final  prophecy  respecting  the  passion,  "  He 
made  his  grave  with  the  wicked  and  with  the  rich  in  his  death," 
he  desires  to  direct  the  mind  of  the  spectator  to  this  receiving  cf 
the  body  of  Christ,  in  its  contrast  with  the  houseless  birth  and 
the  desert  life.  And,  therefore,  behind  the  ghastly  tomb-grass 
that  shakes  its  black  and  withered  blades  above  the  rocks  of  the 
sepulchre,  there  is  seen,  not  the  actual  material  distance  of  the 
spot  itself,  (though  the  crosses  are  shown  faintly,)  but  that  to 
which  the  thoughtful  spirit  would  return  in  vision,  a  desert  place, 
where  the  foxes  have  holes  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have  nests, 
and  against  the  barred  twilight  of  the  melancholy  sky  are  seen 
the  mouldering  beams  and  shattered  roofing  of  a  ruined  cattle- 
shed,  the  canopy  of  the  nativity. 

Let  us  take  another  instance.  No  subject  has  ^  rp^^^ 
been  more  frequently  or  exquisitely  treated  by  the  J^^nciation. 
religious  painters  than  that  of  the  Annunciation,  though  as  usual, 
the  most  perfect  type  of  its  pure  ideal  has  been  given  by  Ange- 
lico,  and  by  him  with  the  most  radiant  consummation  (so  far  as  I 
know)  in  a  small  reliquary  in  the  sacristy  of  St^.  Maria  Novella. 
The  background  there,  however,  is  altogether  decorative ;  but  in 
the  fresco  of  the  corridor  of  St.  Mark's,  the  concomitant  circum- 
stances are  of  exceeding  loveliness.  The  Virgin  sits  in  an  open 
loggia,  resembling  that  of  the  Florentine  church  of  L'Annunziata, 
Before  her  is  a  meadow  of  rich  herbage,  covered  with  daisies. 
Behind  her  is  seen  through  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  loggia,  her 
chamber  with  its  single  grated  window,  through  which  a  star-like 
beam  of  light  falls  into  the  silence.  All  is  exquisite  in  feeling, 
but  not  inventive  nor  imaginative.  Severe  would  be  the  shock 
and  painful  the  contrast,  if  we  could  pass  in  an  instant  from  that 
pure  vision  to  the  wild  thought  of  Tintoret.  For  not  in  meek  re- 
ception of  the  adoring  messenger,  but  startled  by  the  rush  of  his 
horizontal  and  rattling  wings,  the  virgin  sits,  not  in  the  quiet 
loggia,  not  by  the  green  pasture  of  the  restored  soul,  but  house- 
less, under  the  shelter  of  a  palace  vestibule  ruined  and  abandoned. 


172 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  III 


with  the  noise  of  the  axe  and  the  hammer  in  her  ears,  and  the 
tumult  of  a  city  round  about  her  desolation.  The  spectator  turns 
away  at  first,  revolted,  from  the  central  object  of  the  picture, 
forced  painfully  and  coarsely  forward,  a  mass  of  shattered  brick- 
work, with  the  plaster  mildewed  away  from  it,  and  the  mortal 
mouldering  from  its  seams ;  and  if  he  look  again,  either  ai  this  or 
at  the  carpenter's  tools  beneath  it,  will  perhaps  see  in  the  one  and 
the  other,  nothing  more  than  such  a  study  of  scene  as  Tintoret 
could  but  too  easily  obtain  among  the  ruins  of  his  owm  Venice, 
chosen  to  give  a  coarse  explanation  of  the  calling  and  the  condi- 
tion of  the  husband  of  Mar^^  But  there  is  more  meant  than 
this.  When  he  looks  at  the  composition  of  the  picture,  he  will 
find  the  whole  symmetry  of  it  depending  on  a  narrow  line  of 
light,  the  edge  of  a  carpenter's  square,  which  connects  these 
unused  tools  wuth  an  object  at  the  top  of  the  brickwork,  a  white 
stone,  four  square,  the  corner-stone  of  the  old  edifice,  the  base  of 
its  supporting  column.  This,  I  think,  sufficiently  explains  the 
typical  character  of  the  whole.  The  ruined  house  is  the  Jewish 
dispensation,  that  obscurely  arising  in  the  dawning  of  the  sky  is 
the  Christian ;  but  the  corner-stone  of  the  old  building  remains, 
though  the  builder's  tools  lie  idle  beside  it,  and  the  stone  which 
the  builders  refused  is  become  the  Headstone  of  the  corner. 

^,  „         In  this  picture,  however,  the  force  of  the  thouofht 

§  18.  The  Bap.  r  »  '  o 

tism  of  Christ,  hardly  atones  for  the  painfulness  of  the  scene  and  the 
by  various  turbulence  of  its  feeling.  The  power  of  the  master 
painters.  morc  strikingly  shown  in  his  treatment  of  a  subject 

which,  however  important,  and  however  deep  in  its  meaning, 
supplies  not  to  the  ordinary  painter  material  enough  ever  to  form 
a  picture  of  high  interest ;  the  Baptism  of  Christ.  From  the 
purity  of  Giotto  to  the  intolerable,  inconceivable  brutality  of  Sal- 
vator,*  every  order  of  feeling  has  been  displayed  in  its  treatment ; 

*  The  picture  is  in  the  Guadagni  palace.  It  is  one  of  the  most  important 
landscapes  Salvator  ever  painted.  The  figures  are  studied  from  street  beggars. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  river,  exactly  opposite  the  point  where  the  Baptism 
of  Christ  takes  place,  the  painter,  with  a  refinement  of  feeling  peculiarly  his 
own,  has  introduced  some  ruffians  stripping  off  their  shirts  to  bathe.  He  is 
fond  of  this  incident.  It  occurs  again  in  one  of  the  marines  '^f  the  Pitti  pal- 
ace, with  the  additional  interest  of  a  foreshortened  figure,  sw^imming  on  its 
Vjack,  feet  foremost,  exactly  in  the  stream  of  light  to  which  the  eye  is  princi- 
pally directed. 


sc.  II.  CH.  III.]       OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


173 


but  I  am  aware  of  no  single  case,  except  this  of  which  I  am  aboui 
to  speak,  in  which  it  has  formed  an  impressive  picture. 

Giotto's,  in  the  Academy  of  Florence,  engraved  in  the  series 
just  published,  (Galleria  delle  belle  Arti,)  is  one  of  the  most 
touching  I  know,  especially  in  the  reverent  action  of  the  attend- 
ant angels,  and  Leonardo's  angel  in  that  of  Andrea  del  Yerroc- 
chio  is  very  beautiful,  but  the  event  is  one  whose  character  and 
importance  are  ineffable  upon  the  features :  the  descending  dove 
hardly  affects  us,  because  its  constant  symbolical  occurrence 
hardens  us,  and  makes  us  look  on  it  as  a  mere  type  or  letter, 
instead  of  the  actual  presence  of  the  Spirit ;  and  by  all  the  sacred 
painters  the  power  that  might  be  put  into  the  landscape  is  lost, 
for  though  their  use  of  foliage  and  distant  sky  or  mountain  is 
usually  very  admirable,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  fifth  chapter,  yet 
they  cannot  deal  with  near  water  or  rock,  and  the  hexagonal  and 
basaltic  protuberances  of  their  river  shore  are  I  think  too  painful 
to  be  endured  even  by  the  most  acceptant  mind,  as  eminently  in 
that  of  Angelico,  in  the  Vita  di  Christo,  which,  as  far  I  can  judge, 
is  a  total  failure  in  action,  expression,  and  all  else ;  and  in  general 
it  is  in  this  subject  especially,  that  the  greatest  painters  show  their 
weakness.  For  this  reason,  I  suppose,  and  feeling  the  difhculty 
of  it,  Tintoret  has  thrown  into  it  his  utmost  strength,  and  it  be- 
comes noble  in  his  hands  by  his  most  singularly  imagitiative 
expression,  not  only  of  the  immediate  fact,  but  of  the  whole  train 
of  thought  of  which  it  is  suggestive  ;  and  by  his  considering  the 
baptism  not  only  as  the  submission  of  Christ  to  the  fulfilment  of 
all  ligliteousness,  but  as  the  opening  of  the  earthly  struggle  with 
the  prince  of  the  powers  of  the  air,  which  instantly  beginning  in 
the  temptation,  ended  only  on  the  cross. 

The  river  flows  fiercely  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  ^  19  ^y.  ijj^. 
rock.  From  its  opposite  shore,  thickets  of  close, 
gloomy  foliage  rise  against  the  rolling  chasm  of  heaven,  through 
which  breaks  the  brightness  of  the  descending  Spirit.  Across 
these,  dividing  them  asunder,  is  stretched  a  horizontal  floor  of 
flaky  cloud,  on  which  stand  the  hosts  of  heaven.  Christ  kneels 
upon  the  water,  and  does  not  sink ;  the  figure  of  St.  John  is  indis- 
tinct, but  close  beside  his  raised  right  arm  there  is  a  spectre  in 
the  black  shade ;  the  fiend,  harpy-shaped,  hardly  seen,  glares 
down  upon  Christ  with  eyes  of  fire,  waiting  his  time.  Beneatb 


174 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  m, 


this  figure  there  comes  out  of  the  mist  a  dark  hand,  the  arm  iin- 
seen,  extended  to  a  net  in  the  river,  the  spars  of  which  are  in  the 
shape  of  a  cross.  Behind  this  the  roots  and  under  stems  of  the 
trees  are  cut  away  by  the  cloud,  and  beneath  it,  and  through  them, 
is  seen  a  vision  of  wild,  melancholy,  boundless  light,  the  sweep  of 
the  desert,  and  the  figure  of  Christ  is  seen  therein  alone,  with  his 
arms  lifted  as  in  supplication  or  ecstacy,  borne  of  the  Spirit  into 
the  wilderness  to  be  tempted  of  the  devil. 

There  are  many  circumstances  which  combine  to  give  to  this 
noble  work  a  more  than  usually  imaginative  character.  The  sym- 
bolical use  of  the  net,  which  is  the  cross  net  still  used  constantly 
in  the  canals  of  Venice,  and  common  throughout  Italy,  is  of  the 
same  character  as  that  of  the  carpenter's  tools  in  the  Annunciation ; 
but  the  introduction  of  the  spectral  figure  is  of  bolder  reach,  and 
yet  more,  that  vision  of  the  after  temptation  which  is  expressly 
indicated  as  a  subject  of  thought  rather  than  of  sight,  because  it 
is  in  a  part  of  the  scene,  which  in  fact  must  have  been  occupied 
by  the  trunks  of  the  trees  whose  tops  are  seen  above ;  and  an- 
other circumstance  completes  the  mystic  character  of  the  whole, 
that  the  flaky  clouds  which  support  the  angelic  hosts  take  on  the 
right,  where  the  light  first  falls  upon  them,  the  shape  of  the  head 
of  a  fish,  the  well-known  type  both  of  the  baptismal  sacrament, 
and  of  Christ. 

^  20.  The  Cm-  -^^^  most  exquisite  instance  of  this  imaginative 
cifixion.  power  occurs  in  an  incident  in  the  background  of  the 
Crucifixion.  I  will  not  insult  this  marvellous  picture  by  an  effort 
at  a  verbal  account  of  it.  I  would  not  whitewash  it  with  praise, 
and  I  refer  to  it  only  for  the  sake  of  two  thoughts  peculiarly  il- 
lustrative of  the  intellectual  faculty  immediately  under  discussion. 
In  the  common  and  most  catholic  treatment  of  the  subject,  the 
mind  is  either  painfully  directed  to  the  bodily  agon}^,  coarsely 
expressed  by  outward  anatomical  signs,  or  else  it  is  permitted  to 
rest  on  that  countenance  inconceivable  by  man  at  any  time,  but 
chiefly  so  in  this  its  consummated  humiliation.  In  the  first  case, 
the  representation  is  revolting ;  in  the  second,  inefficient,  false, 
and  sometimes  blasphemous.  None  even  of  the  greatest  religious 
painters  have  ever,  so  far  as  I  know,  succeeded  here ;  Giotto  and 
Angelico  were  cramped  by  the  traditional  treatment,  and  the  latter 
especially,  as  before  observed,  is  but  too  apt  to  indulge  in  those 


sc.  II.  CH.  III.]        01   IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE.  l^i  O 

points  of  vitiated  feeling  wliicli  attained  their  worst  development 
among  the  Byzantines :  Perugino  fails  in  his  Christ  in  almost 
every  instance  (of  other  men  than  tliese  after  them  we  need  not 
speak.)  But  Tintoret  here,  as  in  all  other  cases,  penetrating  into 
the  root  and  deep  places  of  his  subject,  despising  all  outward  and 
bodily  appearances  of  pain,  and  seeking  for  some  means  of  ex- 
pressing, not  the  rack  of  nerve  or  sinew,  but  the  fainting  of  the 
deserted  Son  of  God  before  his  Eloi  cry,  and  yet  feeling  himself 
utterly  unequal  to  the  expression  of  this  by  the  countenance,  has 
on  the  one  hand  filled  his  picture  with  such  various  and  impetuous 
muscular  exertion  that  the  body  of  the  Crucified  is,  by  compari- 
son, in  perfect  repose,  and  on  the  other  has  cast  the  countenance 
altogether  into  shade.  But  the  agony  is  told  by  this,  and  by 
this  only,  that  though  there  yet  remains  a  chasm  of  light  on  the 
mountain  horizon  where  the  earthquake  darkness  closes  upon  the 
day,  the  broad  and  sunlike  glory  about  the  head  of  the  Redeemer 
has  become  wan,  and  of  the  color  of  ashes. 

But  the  great  painter  felt  he  had  something  more  to  do  yet. 
JNot  only  that  agony  of  the  Crucified,  but  the  tumult  of  the  people, 
that  rage  which  invoked  his  blood  upon  them  and  their  children. 
Not  only  the  brutality  of  the  soldier,  the  apathy  of  the  centurion, 
nor  any  other  merely  instrumental  cause  of  the  Divine  suffering, 
but  the  fury  of  his  own  people,  the  noise  against  him  of  those  for 
whom  he  died,  were  to  be  set  before  the  eye  of  the  understanding, 
if  the  power  of  the  picture  was  to  be  complete.  This  rage,  be  it 
remembered,  was  one  of  disappointed  pride ;  and  the  disappoint- 
ment dated  erssentially  from  the  time,  when  but  five  days  before, 
the  King  of  Zion  came,  and  was  received  with  hosannahs,  riding 
upon  an  ass,  and  a  colt  the  foal  of  an  ass.  To  this  time,  then,  it 
was  necessary  to  direct  the  thoughts,  for  therein  are  found  both 
the  cause  and  the  character,  the  excitement  of,  and  the  witness 
against,  this  madness  of  the  people.  In  the  shadow  behind  the 
cross,  a  man,  riding  on  an  ass  colt,  looks  back  to  the  multitude, 
while  he  points  with  a  rod  to  the  Christ  crucified.  The  ass  is 
feeding  on  the  remnants  of  withered  palm-leaves. 

With  this  master-stroke  I  believe  I  may  terminate  all  illustra- 

*  This  circumstanc  ?,  like  most  that  lie  not  at  the  surface,  has  escaped  Pu- 
£3eli,  thougli  his  remarks  on  the  general  tone  of  the  picture  are  very  good,  at 
well  as  his  opposition  of  it  to  the  treatment  of  Ruhens.    (Lecture  IX.) 


176 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  III 


Lion  of  tlie  peculiar  power  of  tlie  imagination  over  tlie  feelings  of 
the  spectator,  by  the  elevation  into  dignity  and  meaning  of  the 
smallest  accessory  circumstances.  But  I  have  not  yet  sufficiently 
dwelt  on  the  fact  from  which  this  power  arises,  the  absolute  truth 
of  statement  of  the  central  fact  as  it  was,  or  must  liave  been. 
Without  this  truth,  this  awful  first  moving  principle,  all  direction 
of  the  feelings  is  useless.  That  which  we  cannot  excite,  it  is  of 
no  use  to  know  how  to  gQvern. 

«  91  The  ^  ^^^^  before  alluded.  Sect.  I.  Chap.  XIV.,  to  the 
Massacre  of  in-  paiufulucss  of  RafFaellc's  treatment  of  the  massacre 
of  the  innocents.  Fuseh  affirms  of  it  that,  in  dra- 
m.atic  gradation  he  disclosed  all  the  mother  through  every  image  of 
pity  and  of  terror."  If  this  be  so,  I  think  the  philosophical  spirit 
has  prevailed  over  the  imaginative.  The  imagination  never  errs,  it 
sees  all  that  is,  and  all  the  relations  and  bearings  of  it,  but  it  would 
not  have  confused  the  mortal  frenzy  of  maternal  terror  with  various 
development  of  maternal  character.  Fear,  rage,  and  agony,  at  their 
utmost  pitch,  sweep  away  all  character :  humanity  itself  would  be 
lost  in  maternity,  the  woman  would  become  the  mere  personification 
of  animal  fury  or  fear.  For  this  reason  all  the  ordinary  representa- 
tions of  this  subject  are,  I  think,  false  and  cold  :  the  artist  has  not 
heard  the  shrieks,  nor  mingled  with  the  fugitives,  he  has  sat  down 
in  his  study  to  twist  features  methodically,  and  philosophize  over 
insanity.  Not  so  Tintoret.  Knowing  or  feeling,  that  the  expres- 
sion of  the  human  face  was  in  such  circumstances  not  to  be  ren- 
dered, and  that  the  effort  could  only  end  in  an  ugly  falsehood,  he 
denies  himself  all  aid  from  the  features,  he  feels  that  if  he  is  to 
place  himself  or  us  in  the  midst  of  that  maddened  multitude,  there 
can  be  no  time  allowed  for  watching  expression.  Still  less  does  he 
depend  on  details  of  murder  or  ghastliness  of  death  ;  there  is  no 
blood,  no  stabbing  or  cutting,  but  there  is  an  awful  substitute  for 
these  in  the  chiaroscuro.  The  scene  is  the  outer  vestibule  of  a 
palace,  the  slipoery  marble  floor  is  fearfully  barred  across  by  san- 
guine shadows,  so  that  our  eyes  seem  to  become  bloodshot  and 
strained  with  strange  horror  and  deadly  vision ;  a  lake  of  life  be- 
fore them,  like  the  burning  seen  of  the  doomed  Moabite  on  the 
water  that  came  by  the  way  of  Edom ;  a  huge  flight  of  stairs, 
without  parapet,  descends  on  the  left ;  down  this  rush  a  crowd  of 
women  mixed  with  the  murderers ;  the  child  in  the  arras  of  one 


8C.  II.  CH.  III.]        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


177 


has  been  seized  by  the  Ihnbs,  slie  hurls  herself  over  the  edge,  and 
falls  head  downmost,  dragging  the  child  out  of  the  grasp  by  lier 
weight ; — she  will  be  dashed  dead  in  a  second :  two  others  are 
fart^her  in  flight,  they  reach  the  edge  of  a  deep  river, — the  v/ater 
is  beat  into  a  hollow  by  the  force  of  their  plunge ; — close  to  us  is 
the  great  struggle,  a  heap  of  the  mothers  entangled  in  one  mortal 
writhe  with  each  other  and  the  swords,  one  of  the  murderers 
dashed  down  and  crushed  beneath  them,  the  sword  of  anothei 
caught  by  the  blade  and  dragged  at  by  a  woman's  naked  hand ; 
fche  youngest  and  fairest  of  the  women,  her  child  just  torn  away 
from  a  death  grasp  and  clasped  to  her  breast  with  the  grip  of  a 
steel  vice,  falls  backwards  helplessly  over  the  heap,  right  on  the 
6 word  points ;  all  knit  together  and  hurled  down  in  one  hopeless, 
frenzied,  furious  abandonment  of  body  and  soul  in  the  ofFort  to 
save.  Their  shrieks  ring  in  our  ears  till  the  marble  seems  rending 
around  us,  but  far  back,  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  shadow  like  a  heap  of  clothes.  It  is  a  woman,  sitting 
quiet, — quite  quiet — still  as  any  stone,  she  looks  down  steadfastly 
on  her  dead  child,  laid  along  on  the  floor  before  her,  and  her  hand 
is  pressed  softly  upon  her  brow. 

This,  to  my  mind,  is  the  only  imaginative  ;  that  §  22.  Various 
is,  the  only  true,  real,  heartfelt  representation  of  the  geuoia  di  san 
being  and  actuality  of  the  subject  in  existence.^  I 
should  exhaust  the  patience  of  the  reader  if  I  were  to  dwell  at 
length  on  the  various  stupendous  developments  of  the  imagination 
of  Tintoret  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  alone.  I  would  fain  join 
a  while  in  that  solemn  pause  of  the  journey  into  Egypt,  where 
the  silver  boughs  of  the  shadowy  trees  lace  with  their  tremulous 
lines  the  alternate  folds  of  fair  clouds,  flushed  by  faint  crimson 
light,  and  lie  across  the  streams  of  blue  between  those  rosy 
islands,  like  the  white  wakes  of  wandering  ships  ;  or  watch  beside 
tTle  sleep  of  the  disciples  among  those  massy  leaves  that  lie  so 
heavily  on  the  dead  of  the  night  beneath  the  descent  of  the  angel 
of  tht;  agony,  and  toss  fearfully  above  tlie  motion  of  the  torches  as 
the  troop  of  the  betrayer  emerges  out  of  the  hollows  of  the  oHves  ; 
or  wait  through  the  hour  of  accusing  beside  the  judgment  seat  of 

*  N:i:e  the  shallow  and  uncomprehending  notice  of  this  picture  })y  Fuseli, 
His  description  of  the  treatment  of  it  by  other  painters  is  howeve?  true,  leree 
and  valuable' 

8» 


178 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETKATIVE. 


[part  III 


Pilate,  where  all  is  unseen,  iinfelt,  except  the  one  figure  that 
stands  with  its  head  bowed  down,  pale  like  a  pillar  of  moonlight, 
half  bathed  in  the  glory  of  the  Godhead,  half  wrapt  in  the  white- 
ness of  the  shroud.    Of  these  and  all  the  other 

§  23.  The  Last  p  •    i        -i    i  i  t  ^  t 

Judgment.  thoughts  of  indescribablo  power  that  are  now  lading 
various  paiut-  from  the  walls  of  those  neglected  chambers,  I  may 
perhaps  endeavor  at  some  future  time  to  preserve 
some  image  and  shadow  more  faithfully  than  by  words  ;  but  I 
shall  at  present  terminate  our  series  of  illustrations  by  reference 
to  a  work  of  less  touching,  but  more  tremendous  appeal,  the  Lasf 
Judgment  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  dell'  Orto.  In  this  sub- 
ject, almost  all  realizing  or  local  statement  had  been  carefully 
avoided  by  the  most  powerful  painters,  they  judging  it  better  to 
represent  its  cliief  circumstances  as  generic  thoughts,  and  present 
them  to  the  mind  in  a  typical  or  abstract  form.  In  the  judgment 
of  Angelico  the  treatment  is  purely  typical,  a  long  Campo  santo, 
composed  of  two  lines  of  graves,  stretches  away  into  the  distance  ; 
on  the  left  side  of  it  rise  the  condemned  ;  on  the  right  the  just. 
With  Giotto  and  Orcagna,  the  conception,  though  less  rigid,  is 
equally  typical,  no  effort  being  made  at  the  suggestion  of  space, 
and  only  so  much  ground  represented  as  is  absolutely  necessary 
to  support  the  near  figures  and  allow  space  for  a  few  graves. 
Michael  Angelo  in  no  respect  differs  in  his  treatment,  except  that 
his  figures  are  less  symmetrically  grouped,  and  a  greater  concep- 
tion of  space  is  given  by  their  various  perspective.  No  interest 
is  attached  to  his  background  in  itsoif.  Fra  Bartolomeo,  never 
able  to  grapple  with  an}^  species  of  sublimity  except  that  of  sim- 
ple religious  feeling,  fails  most  signally  in  this  mighty  theme."^ 
His  group  of  the  dead,  including  not  more  than  ten  or  twelve 
figures,  occupies  the  foreground  only,  behind  them  a  vacant  plain 
extends  to  the  foot  of  a  cindery  volcano,  about  whose  mouth  several 
little  black  devils  like  spiders  are  skipping  and  crawling.  Tltfe 
judgment  of  quick  and  dead  is  thus  expressed  as  taking  place  in 
about  a  rood  square,  and  on  a  dozen  of  people  at  a  time  ;  the 
whole  of  the  space  and  horizon  of  the  sky  and  land  being  left 
vacant,  and  the  presence  of  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  made  more 
finite  than  the  sweep  of  a  whirlwind  or  a  thunder-storm. 

♦  Preeco  in  an  out-house  of  the  Ospedale  St^.  Maria  Nuova  at  Florence. 


sc.  II.  CH.  III.]        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


1Y9 


By  Tintoret  only  has  this  unimaginable  event  been  ^  24.  By  Tin 
grappled  with  in  its  verity ;  not  typically  nor  sym- 
bohcally,  but  as  they  may  see  it  who  shall  not  sleep,  but  be 
changed.  Only  one  traditional  circumstance  he  has  received 
with  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo,  the  boat  of  the  condemned ;  but 
the  impetuosity  of  his  mind  bursts  out  even  in  the  adoption  of 
this  image,  he  has  not  stopped  at  the  scowling  ferryman  of  the 
one,  nor  at  the  sweeping  blow  and  demon  dragging  of  the  other, 
but,  seized  Hylas-likeby  the  limbs,  and  tearing  up  the  earth  in 
his  agony,  the  victim  is  dashed  into  his  destruction  ;  nor  is  it 
the  sluggish  Lethe,  nor  the  fiery  lake  that  bears  the  cursed  ves- 
sel, but  the  oceans  of  theearth  and  the  waters  of  the  firmament 
gathered  into  one  white,  ghastly  cataract,  the  river  of  the  wrath 
of  God,  roaring  down  into  the  gulf  where  the  world  has  melted 
with  its  fervent  heat,  choked  with  the  ruin  of  nations,  and  the 
limbs  of  its  corpses  tossed  out  of  its  whirling,  like  water-wheels. 
Bat  like,  out  of  the  holes  and  caverns  and  shadows  of  the  earth, 
the  bones  gather,  and  the  clay  heaps  heave,  rattling  and  adhering 
into  half-kneaded  anatomies,  that  crawl,  and  startle,  and  struggle 
up  among  the  putrid  weeds,  with  the  clay  clinging  to  their 
clotted  hair,  and  their  heavy  eyes  sealed  by  the  earth  darkness 
yet,  like  his  of  old  who  went  his  way  unseeing  to  Siloam  Pool ; 
shaking  off  one  by  one  the  dreams  of  the  prison-house,  hardly 
hearing  the  clangor  of  the  trumpets  of  the  armies  of  God,  blinded 
yet  more,  as  they  awake,  by  the  white  light  of  the  new  Heaven, 
until  the  great  vortex  of  the  four  winds  bears  up  their  bodies  to 
the  judgment  seat :  the  firmament  is  all  full  of  them,  a  very  dust  of 
human  souls,  that  drifts,  and  floats,  and  falls  in  the  interminable, 
inevitable  light ;  the  bright  clouds  are  darkened  with  them  as 
with  thick  snow,  currents  of  atom  life  in  the  arteries  of  heaven, 
now  soaring  up  slowly,  farther,  and  higher,  and  higher  still,  till 
the  eye  and  the  thought  can  follow  no  farther,  borne  up,  wingless, 
by  their  inward  faith  and  by  the  angel  powers  invisible,  now 
hurled  in  countless  drifts  of  horror  before,  the  breath  of  their  con- 
demnation. 

Now,  I  wish  the  reader  particularly  to  observe    „^  . 

'  ^  §  25.  The  ima« 

throughout  all  these  works  of  Tintoret,  the  distinction  ginative  verity, 

r    ^       •         .       .  •       r  ^111  distin- 

ct the  imagmaiive  verity  from  falsehood  on  the  one  guished  from 

hand,  and  from  realism  on  the  other.    The  power  of 


ISO 


OF  IM  VGIN  ATIOX  TENETRATIVE. 


[pAiiT  in 


of  every  picture  depends  on  the  penetration  of  the  imagination 
into  the  true  nature  of  the  thing  represented,  and  on  tl^e  utter 
scorn  of  the  imagination  for  all  shackles  and  fetters  of  mere  exter- 
nal fact  that  stand  in  the  way  of  its  suggestiveness.  In  the 
Baptism  it  cuts  away  the  trunks  of  trees  as  if  they  were  so  much 
cloud  or  vapor,  that  it  may  exhibit  to  the  thought  the  com- 
pleted sequency  of  the  scene  ;^  in  the  Massacre,  it  covers  the 
marble  floor  with  visionary  light,  that  it  may  strike  terror  into 
the  spectator  without  condescending  to  butchery  ;  it  defies  the 
bare  fact,  but  creates  in  him  the  fearful  feeling  ;  in  the  Cruci- 
fixion it  annihilates  locality,  and  brings  the  palm-leaves  to  Cal- 
vary, so  only  that  it  may  bear  the  mind  to  the  mount  of  Olives, 
as  in  the  entombment  it  brings  the  manger  to  Jerusalem,  that  it 
may  take  the  heart  to  Bethlehem ;  and  all  this  it  does  in  the 
daring  consciousness  of  its  higher  and  spiritual  verity,  and  in  the 
entire  knowledge  of  the  fact  and  substance  of  all  that  it  touches. 
The  imaginary  boat  of  the  demon  angel  expands  the  rush  of  the 
visible  river  into  the  descent  of  irresistible  condemnation ;  but  to 
make  that  rush  and  roar  felt  by  the  eye  and  heard  by  the  ear, 
the  rending  of  the  pine  branches  above  the  cataract  is  taken 
directly  from  nature ;  it  is  an  abstract  of  Alpine  storm.  Hence 
while  we  are  always  placed  face  to  face  with  whatever  is  to  be 
told,  there  is  in  and  beyond  its  reality  a  voice  supernatural  ;  and 
that  which  is  doubtful  in  the  vision  has  strength,  sinevv%  and 
assuredness,  built  up  in  it  by  fact. 

§  2G.  The  ima-  Let  US,  howevcr.  Still  advance  one  step  fartlier, 
lianSed^in  ^^^^  obscrve  the  imaginative  power  deprived  of  all 
sculpture.  irom  chiaroscuro,  color,  or  any  other  means  of 

concealing  the  frame-work  of  its  thoughts. 

It  was  said  by  Michael  Angelo  that  non  ha  Tottimo  scultore 
alcun  concetto,  Ch'un  marmo  solo  in  se  non  circoscriva,"  a  sen- 
tence which,  though  in  the  immediate  sense  intended  by  the 
writer  it  may  remind  us  a  little  of  the  indignation  of  Boileau's 
Pluto,  "II  s'ensuit  de  la- que  tout  ce  qui  se  pent  dire  de  beau,  est 
dans  les  dictionnaires, — il  n'y  a  que  les  paroles  qui  sont  trans- 
posees,"  yet  is  valuable,  because  it  shows  us  that  Michael  Angelo 

*  The  same  thing  is  done  yet  more  boldly  in  the  large  composition  of  the 
ceilinc;  the  plague  of  fiery  serpents;  a  part  of  the  host,  and  another  sky  hori 
zon  'ire  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  ground. 


sc.  ri.  CH.  III.]        OF   IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


181 


h(3ld  the  imagination  to  be  entirely  expressible  in  rock,  and  there- 
fore altogether  independent,  in  its  own  nature,  of  those  aids  of 
color  and  shade  by  which  it  is  recommended  in  Tintoret,  though 
the  sphere  of  its  operation  is  of  course  by  these  incalculably  ex 
tended.  But  the  presence  of  the  imagination  may  be  rendered 
in  marble  as  deep,  thrilhng,  and  awful  as  in  painting,  so  that  the 
sculptor  seek  for  the  soul  and  govern  the  body  thereby. 

Of  unimaofinative  work,  Bandinelli  and  Canova    ^„  ^  , 

P  ...  ,  ^  2<.  Bandinel- 

supply  us  with  characteristic  instances  of  every  kind,  ii,  Canova,  Mi- 

,      TT         1  1/-^  (-in  1   '  ••     no  da  riesole. 

the  Hercules  and  Cacus  oi  the  former,  and  its  criti- 
cism by  Cellini,  will  occur  at  once  to  eveiy  one ;  the  disgusting 
statue  now  placed  so  as  to  conceal  Giotto's  important  tempera 
picture  in  Santa  Croce  is  a  better  instance,  but  a  still  more  im- 
pressive lesson  might  be  received  by  comparing  the  inanity  of 
Canova's  garland  grace,  and  ball-room  sentiment  with  the  intense 
truth,  tenderness,  and  power  of  men  like  Mino  da  Fiesole,  whose 
chisel  leaves  many  a  hard  edge,  and  despises  down  and  dimple, 
^  but  it  seems  to  cut  light  and  carve  breath,  the  marble  burns 
beneath  it,  and  becomes  transparent  with  very  spirit.  Yet  Mino 
stopped  at  the  human  nature  ;  he  saw  the  soul,  but  not  the 
ghostly  presences  about  it ;  it  was  reserved  for  Michael  Angeio 
to  pierce  deeper  yet,  and  to  see  the  indwelling-  angels.  No  man's 
«oul  is  alone  :  Laocoon  or  Tobit,  the  serpent  has  it  by  the  heart 
or  the  angel  by  the  hand,  the  light  or  tlie  fear  of  the  spiritual 
things  that  move  beside  it  may  be  seen  on  the  body ;  and  that 
bodily  form  with  Buonaroti,  white,  solid,  distinct  material,  though 
it  be,  is  invariably  felt  as  the  instrument  or  the  habitation  of  some 
infinite,  invisible  power.  The  earth  of  the  Sistine  §  28.  Michael 
Adam  that  begins  to  burn  ;  the  woman  embodied  ^^'i^^^®- 
burst  of  adoration  from  his  sleep  ;  the  twelve  great  torrents  of 
the  Spirit  of  God  that  pause  above  us  there,  urned  in  their  ves- 
sels of  clay  ;  the  waiting  in  the  shadow  of  futurity  of  those  through 
whom  the  promise  and  presence  of  God  went  down  from  the  Eve 
to  the  Mary,  each  still  and  fixed,  fixed  in  his  expectation,  silent, 
foreseeing,  faithful,  seated  each  on  his  stony  throne,  the  building 
«tones  of  the  word  of  God,  building  on  and  on,  tier  by  tier,  to 
the  Refused  one,  the  head  of  the  corner;  not  only  these,  not  only 
the  troops  of  terror  torn  up  from  the  earth  by  the  four  quartered 
winds  oi'  the  Judgment,  but  every  fragment  and  atom  of  stoiie 


182 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  III 


that  he  ever  touched  became  instantly  inhabited  by  what  makea 
the  hair  stand  up  and  the  words  be  few  ;  the  St.  Matthew,  not 
yet  disengaged  from  his  sepulchre,  bound  hand  and  foot  by  his 
grave  clothes,  it  is  left  for  us  to  loose  him ;  the  strange  spectral 
wreath  of  the  Florence  Pieta,  casting  its  pyramidal,  distorted 
shadow,  full  of  pain  and  death,  among  the  faint  purple  light  J 
that  cross  and  perish  under  the  obscure  dome  of  St*.  Maria  del 
Fiore,  the  white  lassitude  of  joyous  limbs,  panther  like,  yet  pas- 
sive, fainting  with  their  own  delight,  that  gleam  among  the  Pagan 
formalisms  of  the  Uffizii,  far  away,  showing  themselves  in  their 
lustrous  lightness  as  the  waves  of  an  Alpine  torrent  do  by  their 
dancing  among  the  dead  stones,  though  the  stones  be  as  white  as 
they  :^  and  finally,  and  perhaps  more  than  all,  those  four  ineffable 
types,  not  of  darkness  nor  of  day — not  of  morning  nor  evening, 
but  of  the  departure  and  the  resurrection,  the  twilight  and  the 
dawn  of  the  souls  of  men — together  with  the  spectre  sitting  in 
the  shadow  of  the  niche  above  them  ;f  all  these,  and  all  else  that  I 

*  The  Bacchus.  There  is  a  small  statue  opposite  it  also — unfinished ;  but 
"  a  spirit  still." 

•\  I  would  have  insisted  more  on  the  ghostly  vitality  of  this  dreadful  statue ; 
but  the  passage  referring  to  it  in  Rogers's  Italy  supersedes  all  further  descrip- 
tion.   I  suppose  most  lovers  of  art  know  it  by  heart. 

"  Nor  then  forget  that  chamber  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  gigantic  shapes  of  Night  and  Day, 
Turned  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly  ; 
Yet  still  are  breathing,  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  twofold  influence, — only  to  be  felt — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingling  each  with  each; 
Both,  and  yet  neither.    There,  from  age  to  age, 
Two  ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.    Mark  him  well. 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  from  beneath  his  helm-Uke  bonnet  scowls  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  i 
'Tis  lost  in  shade ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard 
At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 
On  that  thrice-hallowed  day,  when  all  are  there  j 
When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs. 
Visit  ilie  Dead.    Then  wilt  thou  I'eel  his  power! 

It  is  strange  that  this  should  be  the  only  written  instance  (as  fax  as  I  recol- 


3C.  II.  CH.  III.]         OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


183 


could  name  of  his  forming,  have  borne,  and  in  themselves  retain 
and  exercise  the  same  inexplicable  power — inexplicable  because 
proceeding  from  an  imaginative  perception  almost  superhuman, 
which  goes  whither  we  cannot  follow,  and  is  where  we  cannot 
come  ;  throwing  naked  the  final,  deepest  root  of  the  being  of  man 
whereby  he  grows  out  of  the  invisible,  and  holds  on  his  God 
home.'^ 

lect)  of  just  and  entire  appreciation  of  Michael  Angelo's  spiritual  power.  It 
is  perhaps  owing  to  the  very  intensity  of  his  imagination  that  he  has  been  so 
little  understood — for,  as  I  before  said,  imagination  can  never  be  met  by  vanity, 
nor  without  earnestness.  His  Florentine  followers  saw  in  him  an  anatomist 
and  posture-master — and  art  was  finally  destroyed  by  the  influence  over  ad- 
miring idiocy  of  the  greatest  mind  that  art  ever  inspired. 

*  I  have  not  chosen  to  interrupt  the  argument  respecting  the  essence  of 
the  imaginative  faculty  by  any  remarks  on  the  execution  of  the  imaginative 
hand ;  but  we  can  hardly  leave  Tintoret  and  Michael  Angelo  without  somo 
notice  of  the  pre-eminent  power  of  execution  exhibited  by  both  of  them,  in 
consequence  of  their  vigor  and  clearness  of  conception ;  nor  witliout  again 
warning  the  lower  artist  from  confounding  this  velocity  of  decision  and  impa- 
tience with  the  velocity  of  affectation  or  indolence.  Every  result  of  real  imag- 
ination we  have  seen  to  be  a  truth  of  some  sort ;  and  it  is  tlie  characteristic 
^f  truth  to  be  in  some  way  tangible,  seizable,  distinguishable,  and  clear,  as  it 
is  of  falsehood  to  be  obscure,  confused,  and  confusing.  Not  but  that  many, 
if  not  most  truths  have  a  dark  side,  a  side  by  which  they  are  connected  with 
mysteries  too  high  for  us, — nay,  I  think  it  is  commonly  but  a  poor  and  miser- 
able truth  which  the  human  mind  can  walk  all  round,  but  at  all  events  they 
have  one  side  by  which  we  can  lay  hold  of  them,  and  feel  that  they  are  down- 
right adamant,  and  that  their  form,  though  lost  in  cloud  here  and  there,  is  un- 
alterable and  real,  and  not  less  real  and  rocky  because  infinite,  and  joined  on, 
St.  Michael's  mount-like  to  a  far  mainland.  So  then,  whatever  the  real 
imagination  lays  hold  of,  as  it  is  a  truth,  does  not  alter  into  anything  else  as 
the  imaginative  part  works  at  it  and  feels  over  it  and  finds  out  more  of  it,  but 
comes  out  more  and  more  continually,  all  that  is  found  out  pointing  to  and 
indicating  still  more  behind,  and  giving  additional  stability  and  reality  to  that 
which  is  discovered  already.  But  if  it  be  fancy  or  any  other  form  of  pseudo- 
imagination  which  is  at  work,  then  that  which  it  gets  hold  of  may  not  be  a 
truth,  but  only  an  idea,  which  will  keep  giving  way  as  soon  as  we  try  to  take 
hold  of  it  and  turning  into  something  else,  so  that  as  we  go  on  copying  it, 
every  purt  will  be  inconsistent  with  all  that  has  gone  before,  and  at  intervals 
it  will  vanish  altogether,  and  leave  blanks  which  must  be  filled  up  by  any 
means  at  hand.  And  in  these  circumstances,  the  painter,  unable  to  seize  his 
thought,  because  it  has  not  substance  nor  bone  enough  to  bear  grasping,  is 
liable  to  catch  at  every  line  that  he  lays  down,  for  help  and  suggestion,  and  to 
be  led  away  by  it  to  something  else,  which  the  first  effort  to  realize  dissipates 
in  like  manner,  placing  another  phantom  in  its  stead,  until  out  of  the  frag- 
ments of  these  successive  phantoms  he  has  glued  together  a  vague,  mindlesd^ 


184 


OF  IMAGINATION  rENETKATIVE. 


[part  m 


„^  „  Now,  in  all  these  instances,  let  it  be  observed,  for 

§  29.  Kecapitu-   .    .  ' 

lation.  The  per-  it  is  to  that  end  alone  that  I  have  been  aro-uin<T  all 

feet  funodon  of  .  r     ^      •         .       .        .    .  , 

theiiiiagiuHJion  aiong,  tliat  the  virtue  oi  the  imagination  is  its  reach- 
is  the  intuitive  .        ,      -    .•i.-  j  •  ±       •  j.      r  /xi 

perception  of  mg,  by  intuition  and  intensity  oi  gaze,  (not  by  reason- 
ultimate  truth,  -j^^^  j^^^  authoritative  opening  and  revealing 

involuntary  whole,  a  mixture  of  all  that  was  trite  or  common  in  each  of  the 
successive  conce})tions,  for  that  is  necessarily  what  is  first  caught  a  heap  of 
things  with  the  bloom  off  and  the  chill  on,  laborious,  unnatural,  inane,  with 
its  emptiness  disguised  by  affectation,  and  its  tastelessness  salted  by  extrava- 
gance. 

Necessarily,  from  these  modes  of  conception,  three  vices  of  execution  must 
result ;  and  these  are  necessarily  found  in  all  those  parts  of  the  work  where 
any  trust  has  been  put  in  conception,  and  only  to  be  avoided  in  portions  of  ac- 
tual portraiture  (for  a  thoroughly  unimaginative  painter  can  make  no  use  of  a 
study — all  his  studies  are  guesses  and  experiments,  all  are  equally  wrong,  and 
so  far  felt  to  be  wrong  by  himself,  that  he  will  not  work  by  any  of  them,  but 
will  always  endeavor  to  improve  upon  them  in  the  picture,  and  so  lese  the  use 
of  them.)  These  three  vices  of  execution  are  then — first,  feebleness  of  hand- 
ling, owing  to  uncertainty  of  intention  ;  secondly,  intentional  carelessness  of 
handhng,  in  the  hope  of  getting  by  accident  something  more  than  was  meant ; 
and  lastly,  violence  and  haste  of  liandUng,  in  the  effort  to  secure  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  obscure  image  of  which  the  mind  feels  itself  losing  hold.  (I 
am  throughout,  it  will  be  observed,  attributing  right  feeling  to  the  unimagina- 
tive painter ;  if  he  lack  this,  his  execution  may  be  cool  and  determined,  as  he 
will  set  down  falsehood  without  blushing,  and  ugliness  without  suffering.) 
Added  to  these  various  evidences  of  weakness,  will  be  the  various  vices  as- 
sumed for  the  sake  of  concealment ;  morbid  refinements  disguising  feebleness 
— or  insolence  and  coarseness  to  cover  desperation.  When  the  imagination 
is  powerful  the  resulting  execution  is  of  course  the  contrary  of  all  this :  its 
first  steps  will  commonly  be  impetuous,  in  clearing' its  ground  and  getting  at 
its  first  conception — as  we  know  of  Michael  Angelo  in  his  smiting  his  blocks 
into  shape,  (see  the  passage  quoted  by  Sir  Charles  Clarke  in  the  Essay  on 
Expression,  from  Blaise  de  Viirenere,)  and  as  it  is  visible  in  the  handling  of 
Tiritoret  always  :  as  the  work  approaches  completion,  the  stroke,  while  it  re- 
mains certain  and  firm,  because  its  end  is  always  known,  may  frequently  be- 
come slow  and  carefkl,  both  on  account  of  the  (iifli^^ulty  of  following  the  pure 
lines  of  the  conception,  and  becau.ja  there  is  no  fear  felt  of  the  conception's 
vanishing  beibro  it  can  be  realized  ;  but  generally  there  is  a  certain  degree  of 
impetuosity  visible  in  the  v/orks  of  all  the  men  of  high  imagination,  when 
they  are  not  working  from  a  study,  showing  itself  in  Michael  Angelo  by  the 
number  of  blocks  he  left  unfinished,  and  by  some  slight  evidences  in  those  he 
completed  of  his  having  worked  painfully  towards  the  close  ;  so  that,  except 
the  Duke  Lorenzo,  the  Baccluis  of  tlic  Florentine  gallery,  and  the  Pieta  of 
Genoa.  1  know  not  any  of  his  finished  works  in  which  his  mind  is  as  might- 
ily expressed  as  in  his  marble  sketches;  only,  it  is  always  to  be  observed  that 
bnpetuosity  or  rudeness  of  hand  is  not  necessarily — and,  if  imaginative,  ia 


sc.  II.  CH.  III.J        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


185 


power,)  a  more  essential  truth  than  is  seen  at  the  surface  of 
things.  I  repeat  that  it  matters  not  whether  the  reader  is  willing 
to  call  this  faculty  imagination  or  no,  I  do  not  care  about  the 
name ;  but  I  would  be  understood  when  I  speak  of  imagination 
hereafter,  to  mean  this,  the  true  foundation  of  all  art  which  exer- 
cises eternal  authority  over  men's  minds ;  (all  other  imagination 
than  this  is  either  secondary  and  contemplative,  or  utterly  spuri- 
ous ;)  the  base  of  whose  authority  and  being  is  its  perpetual 
thirst  of  truth  and  purpose  to  be  true.  It  has  no  food,  no  delight, 
no  care,  no  perception,  except  of  truth ;  it  is  forever  looking 
under  masks,  and  burning  up  mists  ;  no  fairness  of  form,  no 
majesty  of  seeming  will  satisfy  it ;  the  first  condition  of  its  exist- 
ence is  incapability  of  being  deceived ;  and  though  it  sometimes 
dwells  upon  and  substantiates  the  fictions  of  fancy,  yet  its  own 
operation  is  to  trace  to  their  farthest  limit  the  true  laws  and  like- 
lihoods even  of  the  fictitious  creation.    This  has  been  well 

never — carelessness.  In  the  two  landscapes  at  the  end  of  the  Scuola  di  San 
Rocco,  Tintoret  has  drawn  several  large  tree  trunks  with  two  strokes  of  his 
brush — one  for  the  dark,  and  another  for  the  light  side  ;  and  the  large  rock  at 
the  foot  of  the  picture  of  the  Temptation  is  painted  with  a  few  detached 
touches  of  gray  over  a  flat  brown  groul^d ;  but  the  touches  of  the  tree-trunks 
have  been  followed  by  the  mind  as  they  went  down  vnih  the  most  painful  in- 
tensity through  their  every  undulation  ;  and  the  few  gray  strokes  on  the 
stone  are  so  considered  that  a  better  stone  cone  could  not  be  painted  if  we 
took  a  month  to  it :  and  I  suppose,  generally,  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to 
give  an  ex:imple  of  execution  In  which  less  was  left  to  accident,  or  in  which 
more  care  was  concentrated  in  every  stroke,  than  the  seemingly  regardless  and 
impetuous  handUng  of  this  painter. 

On  the  habit  of  both  Tintoret  and  Michael  Angelo  to  work  straightforward 
from  the  block  and  on  the  canvas,  without  study  or  model,  it  is  needless  to 
insist ;  for  though  this  is  one  of  the  most  amazing  proofs  of  their  imaginative 
power,  it  is  a  dangerous  precedent.  No  mode  of  execution  ought  ever  to  be 
taught  to  a  young  artist  as  better  than  another ;  he  ought  to  understand  the 
truth  of  what  he  has  to  do,  felicitous  execution  will  follow  as  a  matter  of 
course  ;  and  if  he  feels  himself  capable  of  getting  at  the  right  at  once,  he  will 
naturally  do  so  without  reference  to  precedent.  He  ought  to  hold  always  that 
his  duty  is  to  attain  the  highest  result  he  can, — but  that  no  one  has  any  busi- 
ness with  the  meajj!^  or  time  he  has  taken.  If  it  can  be  done  quickly,  let  it 
be  so  done  ;  if  not,  let  it  be  done  at  any  rate.  For  knowing  his  way  he  is  an* 
swerable,  and  therefore  must  not  walk  doublmpjli/ ;  but  no  one  can  blame  him 
for  walking  cautiously^  if  tlie  v/ay  be  a  nairow  one,  with  a  slip  on  each  side. 
He  may  pause,  but  he  must  not  hesitate,- -and  tremble,  but  must  nat  vtv 
dilate. 


106 


OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


[part  III 


explained  by  Fuseli,  in  his  allusion  to  the  Centaur  of  Zeuxis ;  and 
there  is  not  perhaps  a  greater  exertion  of  imaginative  power  than 
may  be  manifested  in  following  out  to  their  farthest  limits  the 
necessary  consequences  of  such  arbitrary  combination ;  but  let  not 
the  jests  of  the  fancy  be  confounded  with  that  after  serious  w^ork 
of  the  imagination  which  gives  them  all  the  nervous  verity  and 
substance  of  which  they  are  capable.  Let  not  the  monsters  of 
Chinese  earthenware  be  confounded  with  the  Faun,  Satyr,  or 
Centaur. 

§  30.  imagina-  How  different  this  definition  of  the  imagination 
gady  under-^^'  from  the  idea  of  it  commonly  entertained 

stood.  among  us,  I  can  hardly  say,  because  I  have  a  very  . 

indistinct  idea  of  what  is  usually  meant  by  the  term.  I  hear 
modern  works  constantly  praised  as  being  imaginative,  in  which  I 
can  trace  no  virtue  of  any  kind ;  but  simple,  slavish,  unpalliated 
falsehood  and  exaggeration ;  I  see  not  what  merit  there  can  be  in 
pure,  ugly,  resolute  fiction ;  it  is  surely  easy  enough  to  be  wrong ; 
there  are  many  ways  of  being  unlike  nature.  I  understand  not 
what  virtue  tliat  is  which  entitles  one  of  these  ways  to  be  called 
imaginative,  rather  than  another ;  and  I  am  still  farther  embar- 
rassed by  hearing  the  portions  of  those  works  called  especially 
imaginative  in  which  there  is  the  most  effort  at  minute  and 
mechanical  statement  of  contemptible  details,  and  in  which  the 
artist  would  have  been  as  actual  and  absolute  in  imitation  as  an 
echo,  if  he  had  known  how.  Against  convictions  which  I  do  not 
understand,  I  cannot  argue  ;  but  I  may  warn  the  artist  that 
imagination  of  this  strange  kind,  is  not  capable  of  bearing  the 
time  test ;  nothing  of  its  doing  ever  has  continued  its  influence 
over  men ;  and  if  he  desires  to  take  place  among  the  great  men 
of  older  time,  thei'e  is  but  one  way  for  it ;  and  one  kind  of  imag- 
ination that  will  stand  the  immortal  light :  I  know  not  how  far  it 
is  by  effort  cultivable ;  but  we  have  evidence  enough  before  us  to 
show  in  w^hat  direction  that  effort  must  be  made. 

We  have  seen      10)  that  the  imaranation  is  in  no 

§  31.  How  its  Vy       /  PI 

cultivation  is  small  degree  dependent  on  acuteness  oi  moral  emo* 
thrmwai  feei^  tiou ;  in  fact,  all  moral  truth  can  only  thus  be  appre- 
bended — and  it  is  observable,  generally,  that  all  true 
and  deep  emotion  is  imaginative,  both  in  conception  and  expres- 
sion ;  and  that  the  mental  sight  becomes  sharper  with  every  full 


flC.  It.  CII.  III.J        OF  IMAGINATION  PENETRATIVE. 


187 


beat  of  the  heart ;  and,  therefore,  all  egotism,  and  selfish  care,  or 
regard,  are  in  proportion  to  their  constancy,  destructive  of  imagi- 
nation ;  whose  play  and  power  depend  altogether  on  our  being 
able  to  forget  ourselves  and  enter  like  possessing  spirits  into  the 
bodies  of  thinofs  about  us. 

Affain,  as  the  life  of  imao^ination  is  in  the  discover-         .    .  ^ 

^  .     ,  ^  §  32.  On  mde- 

ino'  of  truth,  it  is  clear  it  can  have  no  respect  for  pendenceof 

.  ..  .  mind, 

sayings  or  opuiions  :  knowmg  in  itseli  when  it  has 
invented  truly — restless  and  tormented  except  when  it  has  this 
knowledge,  its  sense  of  success  or  failure  is  too  acute  to  be 
affected  by  praise  or  blame.  Sympathy  it  desires — but  can  do 
without ;  of  opinions  it  is  regardless,  not  in  pride,  but  because  it 
has  no  vanity,  and  is  conscious  of  a  rule  of  action  and  object  of 
aim  in  which  it  cannot  be  mistaken;  partly,  also,  in  pure  energy 
of  desire  and  longing  to  do  and  to  invent  more  and  more,  which 
suffer  it  not  to  suck  the  sweetness  of  praise — unless  a  little,  with 
the  end  of  the  rod  in  its  hand,  and  without  pausing  in  its  march. 
It  goes  straight  forward  up  the  hill ;  no  voices  nor  mutterings  can 
turn  it  back,  nor  petrify  it  from  its  purpose.'^ 

Finally,  it  is  evident,  that  like  the  theoretic  faculty,  .  , 

.  §  33.  And  on 

the  imagination  must  be  fed  constantly  by  external  habitual  refer- 

^  1      -n  •  1  •  1  •     ^^^^  nature 

nature — aiter  the  illustrations  we  have  given,  this 
may  seem  mere  truism,  for  it  is  clear  that  to  the  exercise  of  the 
penetrative  faculty  a  subject  of  penetration  is  necessary ;  but  I 
note  it  because  many  painters  of  powerful  mind  have  been  lost  to 
the  world  by  their  suffering  the  restless  writhing  of  their  imagi- 
nation in  its  cage  to  take  place  of  its  healthy  and  exulting  activity 
-n  the  fields  of  nature.  The  most  imaginative  men  always  study 
the  hardest,  and  are  the  most  thirsty  for  new  knowledge.  Fancy 
plays  like  a  squirrel  in  its  circular  prison,  and  is  happy;  but 
imagination  is  a  pilgrim  on  the  earth — and  her  home  is  in  heaven. 
Shut  her  from  the  fields  of  the  celestial  mountains — bar  her  from 
breathing  their  lofty,  sun- warmed  air  ;  and  we  may  as  well  turn 
upon  her  the  last  bolt  of  the  tower  of  famine,  and  give  the  keys 
to  the  keeping  of  the  wildest  surge  that  washes  Capraja  and 
(rorgona. 

*  That  which  we  know  of  thie  lives  if  M.  Angelo  and  Tintoret  is  emhicntly 
illustrative  of  tliis  temper. 


CHAPTER  IV^. 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 

5  1  imagina-  liave,  in  the  two  preceding  chapters,  arrived 

tion  coutenipia-  at  definite  conclusions  respectinrr  the  power  and 

tive  is  not  part  .         .       .        «       ,  t  i 

of  the  essence,  csscnce  01  the  imaginative  faculty.    In  tliese  two 
mode  of  the  acts  of  penetration  and  combination,  its  separating 
faculty.  characteristic  attributes  are  entirely  developed  ; 

it  remains  for  us  only  to  observe  a  certain  habit  or  mode  of 
operation  in  which  it  frequently  delights,  and  by  which  it  addres- 
ses itself  to  our  perceptions  more  forcibly,  and  asserts  its  presence 
more  distinctly  than  in  those  mighty  but  more  secret  workings 
wherein  its  life  consists. 

In  our  examination  of  the  combininof  imaofination,  we  chose  to 
assume  the  first  or  simple  conception  to  be  as  clear  in  the  absence 
as  in  the  presence  of  the  object  of  it.  This,  I  suppose,  is  in 
point  of  fact  never  the  case,  nor  is  an  approximation  to  such  dis- 
tinctness of  conception  always  a  characteristic  of  the  imaginative 
mind.  Many  persons  have  thorough  and  felicitous  power  of 
drawing  from  memory,  yet  never  originate  a  thought,  nor  excite 
an  emotion. 

„  „„  The  form  in  which  conception  actuallv  occurs  to 

§  2.  The  am-         .  ,  ^  ,  , 

biguity  of  con-  ordinary  minds  appears  to  derive  value  and  precious- 

Ception.  .     t^.  -    ^  nii 

ness  Irom  that  indenniteness  which  we  alluded  to  m 
the  second  chapter,  (§  2,)  for  there  is  an  unfailing  charm  in  the 
memory  and  anticipation  of  things  beautiful,  more  sunny  and 
spiritual  than  attaches  to  their  presence  ;  for  with  their  presence 
it  is  possible  to  be  sated,  and  even  wearied,  but  with  the  imagi- 
nation of  them  never ;  in  so  far  that  it  needs  some  self-discipline 
to  prevent  the  mind  from  f'^lling  into  a  morbid  condition  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  all  that  it  immediately  possesses,  and  continual 
longing  for  things  absent ;  and  yet  I  think  this  charm  is  not  justly 
to  be  attributed  to  the  mere  vagueness  and  uncertainty  of  the 


t>C.  II.  CH.  IV.]      OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


189 


conception,  except  tl"  far,  that  of  objects  whose  Eiibstantial 
presence  was  ugly  or  p-aiuful  the  sublimity  and  impressiveness,  if 
there  were  any,  is  retained  in  the  conception,  while  the  sensual 
offensiveness  is  withdrawn  ;  thus  circumstances  of  horror  may  be 
safely  touched  in  verbal  description,  and  for  a  time  dwelt  upon  by 
the  mind,  as  often  by  Homer  and  Spenser,  (by  the  latter  fre- 
quently with  too  much  grossness,  as  in  the  description  of  the 
combat  of  the  Red- Cross  Knight  with  Errour,)  which  could  not 
for  a  moment  be  regarded  or  tolerated  in  their  reality,  or  on 
canvas ;  and  besides  this  mellowing  and  softening  operation  on 
those  it  retains,  the  conceptive  faculty  has  the  power  of  letting  go 
many  of  them  altogether  out  of  its  groups  of  ideas,  and  retain- 
ing only  those  where  the  meminisse  juvabit  will  apply  ;  and  in 
this  way  the  entire  group  of  memories  becomes  altogether  de- 
liiThtful ;  but  of  those  parts  of  anvthino-  which  are  in    „  ^ 

^  '  .         ^       ^  "     .    ^.    .  §  3.  Is  not  in 

themselves  beautiful,  I  think  the  indistinctness  no  itself  capable  of 

adding  t-o  the 

benent,  but  that  the  brighter  they  are  the  better ;  and  charm  of  fair 
that  the  peculiar  charm  we  feel  in  conception  results 
from  its  grasp  and  blending  of  ideas  rather  than  from  their 
obscurity,  for  we  do  not  usually  recall,  as  we  have  seen,  one  part 
at  a  time  only  of  a  pleasant  scene,  one  moment  only  of  a  happy 
day  ;  but  together  with  each  single  object  we  summon  up  a  kind 
of  crowded  and  involved  shadowing  forth  of  all  the  other  glories 
with  which  it  was  associated,  and  into  every  moment  we  con- 
centrate an  epitome  of  the  day  ;  and  it  will  happen  frequently  that 
even  when  the  visible  objects  or  actual  circumstances  are  not  in 
numbers  remembered  ;  yet  the  feeling  and  joy  of  them  is  obtained 
we  know  not  how  or  whence,  and  so  with  a  kind  of  conceptive 
burning  glass  we  bend  the  sunshine  of  all  the  day,  and  the  ful- 
ness of  all  the  scene  upon  every  point  that  we  successively  seize ; 
and  this  together  with  more  vivi  i  action  of  fancy,  for  I  think  that 
the  wilful  and  playful  seizure  of  'he  points  that  suit  her  purpose, 
and  help  her  springing,  whereby  she  is  distinguished  from  simple 
conception,  takes  place  more  easily  and  actively  with  the  memory 
of  things  than  in  presence  of  them.  But,  however  this  be,  and 
I  confess  that  there  is  much  that  I  cannot  satisfactorily  to  myself 
unravel  with  respect  to  the  nature  of  simple  conception ;  it  is 
evident  that  this  agreeableness,  whatever  it  be,  is  not  by  art 
attainable,  for  all  art  is  in  some  sort  realization;  it  may  be  the 


190 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


[part  III. 


realization  of  obscurity  or  indefiniteiiess,  but  still  it  must  diffei 
from  the  mere  conception  of  obscurity  and  indefiniteness ;  so  that 
whatever  emotions  depend  absolutely  on  imperfectness  of  con- 
ception, as  the  horror  of  Milton's  Death,  cannot  be  rendered  by 
art,  for  art  can  only  lay  hold  of  things  which  have  shape,  and 
destroys  by  its  touch  the  fearfulness  or  pleasurableness  of  those 
which  shape  have  none. 
,  ^  ,  .         But  on  this  indistinctness  of  conception,  itself  com- 

§  4    But  gives  _  .  . 

to  tKe  imag^ina-  paratively  valueless  and  unaffecting,  is  based  the 

tion  its  regard-   ^  -  r    i       •         •       •       i»       i  'i  i-i 

ant  power  over  Operation  01  the  imaginative  laculty  with  which  we 
are  at  present  concerned,  and  in  which  its  glory  is 
consummated ;  whereby,  depriving  the  subject  of  material  and 
bodily  shape,  and  regarding  such  of  its  qualities  only  as  it 
chooses  for  particular  purpose,  it  forges  these  qualities  together 
in  such  groups  and  forms  as  it  desires,  and  gives  to  their  abstract 
being  consistency  and  reality,  by  striking  them  as  it  were  with 
the  die  of  an  image  belonging  to  other  matter,  which  stroke  hav- 
ing once  received,  they  pass  current  at  once  in  the  peculiar  con- 
junction and  for  the  peculiar  value  desired. 

Thus,  in  the  description  of  Satan  quoted  in  the  first  chapter, 
"  And  like  a  comet  burned,''  the  bodily  shape  of  the  angel  is  de- 
stroyed, the  inflaming  of  the  formless  spirit  is  alone  regarded  ; 
and  this,  and  his  power  of  evil  associated  in  one  fearful  and  ab- 
stract conception  are  stamped  to  give  them  distinctness  and  per- 
manence with  the  image  of  the  comet,  "  that  fires  the  length  of 
Ophiuchus  huge."  Yet  this  could  not  be  done,  but  that  the 
image  of  the  comet  itself  is  in  a  measure  indistinct,  capable  of 
awful  expansion,  and  full  of  threatening  and  fear.  Again,  in  his 
fall,  the  imagination  binds  up  the  thunder,  the  resistance,  the 
massy  prostration,  separates  them  from  the  external  form,  and 
binds  them  together  by  the  help  of  that  image  of  the  mountain 
half  sunk  ;  which  again  would  be  unfit  but  for  its  own  indistinct- 
ness, and  for  that  glorious  addition  "  with  all  his  pines,"  whereby 
a  vitality  and  spear-like  hostility  are  communicated  to  its  falling 
form,  and  the  fall  is  marked  as  not  utter  subversion,  but  sinking 
only,  the  pines  remaining  in  their  uprightness,  and  unity,  and 
threatening  of  darkness  upon  the  descended  precipice :  and  again 
in  that  yet  more  noble  passage  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  book, 
where  almost  every  operation  of  the  contemplative  imagination  is 


8C.  II.  CH.  IV.J      OF  IMAGI^^ATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


191 


concentrated  ;  the  angelic  squadron  first  gathered  into  one  burning 
mass  by  the  single  expression  sharpening  in  rnooned  liorns/' 
then  told  out  in  their  unity  and  multitude  and  stooped  hostility, 
by  the  image  of  the  wind  upon  the  corn ;  Satan  endowed  with 
godlike  strength  and  endurance  in  that  mighty  line,  "  like  Tene- 
rifie  or  Atlas,  unremoyed,"  with  infinitude  of  size  the  next  in- 
stant, and  wdth  all  the  vagueness  and  terribleness  of  spiritual 
power,  by  the  "  horror  plumed,"  and  the  "  what  seemed  both  spear 
and  shield." 

The  third  function  of  fancy,  already  spoken  of  as  §  5.  The  third 
subordinate  to  this  of  the  imagination,  is  the  highest  jSthig^ishoT^ 
of  which  she  is  capable  ;  like  the  imagination,  she  be-  [[ouconTempia^ 
holds  in  the  things  submitted  to  her  treatment  things 
different  from  the  actual ;  but  the  suggestions  she  follows  are  not 
in  their  nature  essential  in  the  object  contemplated  ;  and  the 
images  resulting,  instead  of  illustrating,  may  lead  the  mind  away 
from  it,  and  change  the  current  of  contemplative  feeling ;  for  as 
in  her  operation  parallel  to  imagmation  penetrative,  Ave  saw  her 
dwelling  upon  external  features,  while  the  nobler  sister,  faculty, 
entered  within,  so  now,  when  both,  from  what  they  see  and  know 
in  their  immediate  object,  are  conjuring  up  images  illustrative  or 
elevatory  of  it,  the  fancy  necessarily  summons  those  of  mere  ex- 
ternal relationship,  and  therefore  of  unaffecting  influence ;  while 
the  imagination,  by  every  ghost  she  raises,  tells  tales  about  the 
prison-house,  and  therefore  never  loses  her  power  over  the  heart, 
nor  her  unity  of  emotion.  On  the  other  hand,  the  regardant  or 
contemplative  action  of  fancy  is  m  this  different  from,  and  in  this 
nobler,  than  that  mere  seizing  and  likeness- catching  operation  we 
saw  in  her  before ;  that  when  contemplative,  she  verily  believes 
in  the  truth  of  the  vision  she  has  summoned,  los^s  sight  of  actu- 
ality, and  beholds  the  new  and  spiritual  image  faithfully  a,nd  even 
seriously ;  whereas  before,  she  summoned  no  spiritual  image,  but 
merely  caught  the  vivid  actuality,  or  the  curious  resemblance  of 
the  real  object ;  not  that  these  two  operations  are  separate,  for 
the  fancy  passes  gradually  from  mere  vivid  right  of  reality,  and 
witty  suggestion  of  likeness,  to  a  ghostly  sight  of  what  is  unreal ; 
and  through  *his,  in  proportion  as  she  begins  to  feel,  she  rises  to- 
wards ajid  pMrtakes  of  imagination  itself,  for  imagination  and  fancy 
are  continually  imited,  and  it  is  necessary,  when  they  are  so,  care 


192 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


[pari  m. 


fully  to  distinguisli  tlie  feeliiigless  part  which  is  fancy's,  from  the 
sentient  part,  which  is  imagination's.  Let  us  take  a  few  instances. 
Here  is  fancy,  first,  very  beautiful,  in  her  simple  capacity  of  like- 
ness-catching : — 

"  To-day  we  purpose — aye,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine. 
Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hoi  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eghmtine." 

Seizing  on  the  outside  resemblances  of  bead  form,  and  on  the  slip- 
ping from  their  threading  bough  one  by  one,  the  fancy  is  content 
to  lose  the  heart  of  the  thing,  the  solemnity  of  prayer :  or  perhaps 
I  do  the  glorious  poet  wrong  in  saying  this,  for  the  sense  of  a  sun 
worship  and  orison  in  beginning  its  race,  may  have  been  in  his 
mind ;  and  so  far  as  it  was  so,  the  passage  is  imaginative  and  not 
fanciful.  But  that  which  most  readers  would  accept  from  it,  is 
the  mere  flash  of  the  external  image,  in  whose  truth  the  fancy 
herself  does  not  yet  believe  nnd  therefore  is  not  yet  contemplative. 
Here,  however,  is  fancy  believing  in  the  images  she  creates : — 

"  It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent- vine, 
And  the  dark  Hnked  ivy  tangling  wild 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odor  faded  blooms, 
Which  star  the  winds^ith  points  of  colored  ligliv 
As  they  rain  through  them  ;  and  bright  golden  globes 
Of  fruit  suspended  in  their  oioii  green  heaven^ 

It  is  not,  observe,  a  mere  likeness  that  is  caught  here ;  but  the 
flowers  and  fruit  are  entirely  deprived  by  the  fancy  of  their  ma- 
terial existence,  and  contemplated  by  her  seriously  and  faithfully 
as  stars  and  worlds ;  yet  it  is  only  external  likeness  that  she 
catches ;  she  forces  the  resemblance,  and  lowers  the  dignity  of 
the  adopted  image. 

Next  take  two  delicious  stanzas  of  fancy  regardant,  (believing  in 
her  creations,)  followed  by  one  of  heavenly  imagination,  from 
Wordsworth's  address  to  the  daisy : — 

A  Nun  demure — of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden — of  Love's  court,— 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations. 

A  Queen  in  crown  of  ru])ies  drest, 

A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest, 


so.  II  on.  rv.l    OF  imagination  contemplative. 


103 


Are  all  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best  — 
Thy  appellations. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar, 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, — 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  arc 
In  heaven  above  thee. 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest; — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 
Who  shall  reprove  thee. 

Sweet  flower — for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast. 
Sweet  silent  creature, 
That  breath' st  with  me,  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
Of  thy  meek  nature." 

Observe  how  spiritual,  yet  how  wandering  and  §  q  various 
playful  the  fancy  is  in  the  first  two  stanzas,  and  how  ^^s*^^^^^- 
far  she  flies  from  the  matter  in  hand,  never  stopping  to  brood  on 
the  character  of  any  one  of  the  images  she  summons,  and  yet  for 
a  moment  truly  seeing  and  believing  in  them  all ;  while  in  the 
last  stanza  the  imagination  returns  with  its  deep  feeling  to  the 
heart  of  the  flower,  and  "  cleaves  fast''  to  that.  Compare  the 
operation  of  the  imagination  in  Coleridge,  on  one  of  the  most 
trifling  objects  that  could  possibly  have  been  submitted  to  its 
action. 

"  The  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not : 
Only  that  film  which  fluttered  on  the  grate 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me,  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets  ;  everywhere, 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself. 
And  makes  a  toy  of  thought." 

Lastly,  observe  the  sweet  operation  of  fancy  regardant,  in  the 
following  well-known  passage  from  Scott,  where  both  her  behold- 
ing and  transforming  powers  are  seen  in  their  simplicity. 

VOL.  II.  9 


104  OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  [I'Al.T 

"The  rocky  summits — split  and  rent, 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement.^ 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair, 
For  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed, 
Far  o'er  th'  unfathomable  glade, 
All  twinkling  w^ith  the  dew-drop  sheen, 
The  brier-rose  fell,  in  streamers  green, — 
And  creeping  shrubs  of  thousand  dyes 
Waved  in  the  west  wind's  summer  sighs." 

Let  the  reader  refer  to  this  passage,  with  its  pretty  tremulous 
conclusion  above  the  pine  tree,  where  glistening  streamers  waved 
and  danced,"  and  then  compare  with  it  the  following,  where  the 
imagination  operates  on  a  scene  nearly  similar. 

"  Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and  stemmed 
The  struggling  brook ;  tall  spires  of  windle  strae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope, 
And  nought  but  knarled  roots  of  ancient  pines, 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clench'd  with  grasping  roots 

Th'  unwilling  soil  

 A  gradual  change  was  here, 

Yet  ghastly.    For,  as  fast  years  flow  away^ 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And,  white ;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs ;  so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musual  motions  


 Where  the  pass  extends 

Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 
And  seems  with  its  accumulated  crags 
To  overhang  the  world  ;  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars,  and  descending  moon, 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 
Dim  tracts  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  tioilight  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.    The  near  scene 
In  naked,  and  severe  simplicity 
Made  contrast  with  the  universe.    A  pine 
Rock-rooted,  stretth'd  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 


BC.  II.  CH.  IV.]      OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  195 

Yielding  one  only  rcsiwnse  at  each  pame^ 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The  thunder,  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams, 
Mingling  its  solemn  song. 

In  this  last  passage,  the  mind  never  departs  from  its  solemn 
possession  of  the  solitary  scene,  the  imagination  only  giving  weight, 
meaning,  and  strange  human  sympathies  to  all  its  sights  and 
sounds. 

In  that  from  Scott,* — ^the  fancy,  led  away  by  the  outside  re- 
semblance of  floating  form  and  hue  to  the  banners,  loses  the  feel- 
ing and  possession  of  the  scene,  and  places  herself  in  circumstances 
of  character  completely  opposite  to  the  quietness  and  grandeur 
of  the  natural  objects ;  this  would  have  been  unjustifiable,  but 
that  the  resemblance  occurs  to  the  mind  of  the  monarch,  rather 
than  to  that  of  the  poet ;  and  it  is  that,  which  of  all  others,  would 
have  been  the  most  likely  to  occur  at  the  time  ;  in  this  point  of 
vieAv  it  has  high  imaginative  propriety.  Of  the  same  fanciful  char- 
acter is  that  transformation  of  the  tree  trunks  into  dragons  noticed 
before  in  Turner's  Jason ;  and  in  the  same  way  this  becomes 
imaginative  as  it  exhibits  the  effect  of  fear  in  disposing  to  morbid 
perception.  Compare  with  it  the  real  and  high  action  of  the  imag- 
ination on  the  same  matter  in  V/ordsworth's  Yew  trees  (which  I 
consider  the  most  vigorous  and  solemn  bit  of  forest  landscape  ever 
painted) : — 

Each  particular  trunk  a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine. 
Up  coiling  and  inveterately  convolved, 
Nor  uninformed  toith  Phantasy ^  and  looks 
That  threaten  the  profane.^'' 

It  is  too  long  to  quote,  but  the  reader  should  refer  to  it :  let 

*  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  mean  to  compare  the  sickly  dreaming  of 
Shelly  over  clouds  and  waves  with  the  masculine  and  magnificent  grasp  of 
men  and  things  which  we  find  in  Scott;  it  only  happens  that  these  two  pas- 
sages are  more  illustrative,  by  the  likeness  of  the  scenery  they  treat,  than  any 
others  I  could  have  opposed ;  and  that  Shelly  is  peculiarly  distinguished  by 
!he  faculty  of  contemplative  imagination.  Scott's  healthy  and  truthful  feeling 
would  not  allow  him  to  represent  the  benighted  hunter  provoked  by  loss  of 
game,  horse,  and  way  at  once,  as  indulging  in  any  more  exalted  flights  of 
imagination  than  those  naturally  consequent  on  the  contrast  between  the 
night^s  lodging  he  expected,  and  that  which  befitted  him. 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


[part  III. 


him  note  especially,  if  painter,  that  pure  touch  of  color,  "  by  shed- 
dings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged.'* 

In  the  same  way,  the  blasted  trunk  on  the  left,  in  Turner's 
drawing  of  the  spot  where  Harold  fell  at  the  battle  of  Hastings, 
takes,  where  its  boughs  first  separate,  the  shape  of  the  head  of  an 
arrow  ;  this,  which  is  mere  fancy  in  itself,  is  imagination  as  it  sup« 
poses  in  the  spectator  an  excited  condition  of  feeling  dependent 
on  the  history  of  the  spot. 

J  7.  Morbid  or  ^  hsiYQ  been  led  perhaps  into  too  great  detail  in  il- 
nervous  fancy,  lustrating  these  points  ;  but  I  think  it  is  of  no  small 
importance  to  prove  how  in  all  cases  the  imagination  is  based 
upon,  and  appeals  to,  a  deep  heart  feeling ;  and  how  faithful  and 
earnest  it  is  in  contemplation  of  the  subject  matter,  never  losing 
sight  of  it,  or  disguising  it,  but  depriving  it  of  extraneous  and  ma- 
terial accidents,  and  regarding  it  in  it^^  disembodied  essence.  I 
have  not,  however,  sufficiently  noted  in  opposition  to  it,  that  dis- 
eased action  of  the  fancy  which  depends  more  on  nervous  tem- 
perament than  intellectual  power ;  and  which,  as  in  dreaming, 
fever,  in^ianity,  and  other  morbid  conditions  of  mind,  is  frequently 
a  source  of  daring  and  inventive  conception ;  and  so  the  visionary 
appearances  resulting  from  various  disturbances  of  the  frame  by 
passion,  ?.nd  from  the  rapid  tendency  of  the  mind  to  invest  with 
shape  and  intelligence  the  active  influences  about  it,  as  in  the  va- 
rious demons,  spirits,  and  fairies  of  all  imaginative  nations  ;  which, 
however,  I  consider  are  no  more  to  be  ranked  as  right  creations  of 
fancy  or  imagination  than  things  actually  seen  and  heard  ;  for  the 
action  of  the  nerves  is  I  suppose  the  same,  whether  externally 
caused,  or  from  within,  although  very  grand  imagination  may  be 
shown  by  the  intellectual  anticipation  and  realization  of  such  im- 
pressions ;  as  in  that  glorious  \dgnette  of  Turner's  to  the  voyage 
of  Columbus.  "  Slowly  along  the  evening  sky  they  went."  Note 
especially  therein,  how  admirably  true  to  the  natural  form,  and 
yet  how  suggestive  of  the  battlement  he  has  rendered  the  level 
fiake  of  evening  cloud. 

§  8.  The  action  I  bclieve  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  enter  into 
Uve^^ima^ni-'  farther  detail  of  illustration  respecting  these  points  ; 
expressed  by^^  for  fuller  explanation  of  the  operations  of  the  con- 
•^rt.  templative  faculty  on  things  verbally  expressible,  the 

reader  may  be  referred  to  Wordsworth's  preface  to  his  poems;  it 


6C'.  II.  CII.  IV.]       OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


197 


only  remains  for  us,  here,  to  examine  how  far  this  imaginative  or 
abstract  conception  is  to  be  conveyed  by  the  material  art  of  the 
sculptor  or  the  painter. 

Now,  it  is  evident  that  the  bold  action  of  either  the  fancy  or 
the  imagination,  dependent  on  a  bodiless  and  spiritual  image  of  the 
object,  is  not  to  be  by  lines  or  colors  represented.  We  cannot,  in 
the  painting  of  Satan  fallen,  suggest  any  image  of  pines  or  crags, 
— neither  can  we  assimilate  the  brier  and  the  banner,  nor  give  hu- 
man sympathy  to  the  motion  of  the  film,  nor  voice  to  the  swing- 
ing of  the  pines. 

Yet  certain  powers  there  are,  within  due  limits,  of  §9.  Except  un. 
marking  the  thing  represented  with  an  ideal  char-  ftr_?ist^Ab-°^ 
acter ;  and  it  was  to  these  powers  that  I  alluded  in 
definino^  the  meanino^  of  the  term  ideal,  in  the  thir-  without  color, 
teenth  chapter  of  the  preceding  section.  For  it  is  by  this  opera- 
tion that  the  productions  of  high  art  are  separated  from  those  of 
the  realist. 

And,  first,  there  is  evidently  capability  of  separating  color  and 
form,  and  considering  either  separately.  Form  we  find  abstract- 
edly considered  by  the  sculptor,  how  far  it  would  be  possible  to 
advantage  a  statue  by  the  addition  of  color,  I  venture  not  to  af- 
firm ;  the  question  is  too  extensive  to  be  here  discussed.  High 
authorities  and  ancient  practice,  are  in  favor  of  color ;  so  the 
sculpture  of  the  middle  ages  :  the  two  statues  of  Mino  da  Fiesole 
in  the  church  of  St^.  Caterina  at  Pisa  have  been  colored,  the  irises 
of  the  eyes  painted  dark,  and  the  hair  gilded,  as  also  I  think  the 
Madonna  in  St^  Maria  della  Spina  ;  the  eyes  have  been  painted  in 
the  sculptures  of  Orcagna  in  Or  San  Michele,  but  it  looks  like  a 
remnant  of  barbarism,  (compare  the  pulpit  of  Guida  da  Como,  in 
the  church  of  San  Bartolomeo  at  Pistoja,)  and  I  have  never  seen 
color  on  any  solid  forms,  that  did  not,  to  my  mind,  neutralize  all 
other  power ;  the  porcelains  of  Luca  della  Robbia  are  painful  ex- 
amples, and  in  lower  art,  Florentine  mosaic  in  relief ;  gilding  is 
more  admissible,  and  tells  sometimes  sweetly  upon  figures  of 
quaint  design,  as  on  the  pulpit  of  St^.  Maria  Novella,  while  it 
spoils  the  classical  ornaments  of  the  mouldings.  But  the  truest 
grandeur  of  sculpture  I  believe  to  be  in  the  white  form ;  some- 
thing of  tliis  feeling  may  be  owing  to  the  difficulty,  or  rather  the 
immediately,  of  obtaining  truly  noble  color  upon  it,  but  if  wo 


198  OF  IMAGINATION   CONTEMPLATrV  E.  I  PART  III, 


could  color  the  Elgin  marbles  with  the  flesh  tint  of  Giorgione,  I 
had  rather  not  have  it  done. 

§  10.  Of  color  Color,  without  form,  is  less  frequently  obtainable ; 
without  form,  and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  it  be  desirable :  yet  I 
think  that  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  it,  a  certain  abandonment  of 
form  is  necessary ;  sometimes  by  reducing  it  to  the  shapeless  glit- 
ter of  the  gem,  as  often  Tintoret  and  Bassano ;  sometimes  by  loss 
of  outhne  and  blending  of  parts,  as  Turner ;  sometimes  by  flat- 
ness of  mass,  as  often  Giorgione  and  Titian.  How  far  it  is  possi- 
ble for  the  painter  to  represent  those  mountains  of  Shelley  as  the 
poet  sees  them,  "  mingling  their  fiames  with  twilight,"  I  cannot 
say ;  but  my  impression  is,  that  there  is  no  true  abstract  mode  of 
considering  color ;  and  that  all  the  loss  of  form  in  the  works  of 
Titian  or  Turner,  is  not  ideal,  but  the  representation  of  the  natu- 
ral conditions  under  which  bright  color  is  seen ;  for  form  is  always 
in  a  measure  lost  by  nature  herself  when  color  is  very  vivid. 

Asrain,  there  is  capability  of  representing:  the  essen- 

§11.0rofboth       1   °  ^  11         n  1. 

without  tex-  tial  cnaracter,  lorm,  and  color  oi  an  object,  without 
external  texture.  On  this  point  much  has  been  said 
by  Reynolds  and  others,  and  it  is,  indeed,  perhaps  the  most  un- 
failing characteristic  of  great  manner  in  painting.  Compare  a  dog 
of  Edwin  Landseer  with  a  dog  of  Paul  Veronese.  In  the  first, 
the  outward  texture  is  wrought  out  with  exquisite  dexterity  of 
handlinof,  and  minute  attention  to  all  the  accidents  of  curl  and 
gloss  which  can  give  appearance  of  reality,  while  the  hue  and 
power  of  the  sunshine,  and  the  truth  of  the  shadow  on  all  these 
forms  is  necessarily  neglected,  and  the  large  relations  of  the  ani- 
mal as  a  mass  of  color  to  the  sky  or  ground,  or  other  parts  of  the 
picture,  utterly  lost.  This  is  realism  at  the  expense  of  ideality,  it 
is  treatment  essentially  unimaginative."^  With  Veronese,  there  is 
no  curling  nor  crisping,  no  glossiness  nor  sparkle,  hardly  even  hair ; 
a  mere  type  of  hide,  laid  on  with  a  few  scene-painter's  touches. 
But  the  essence  of  dog  is  there,  the  entire  magnificent,  generic 

*  I  do  not  mean  to  withdraw  the  praise  I  have  given,  and  shall  always  be 
wilHng  to  give  such  pictures  as  the  Old  Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner,  and  to  all 
in  which  the  character  and  inner  Ufe  of  animals  are  developed.  But  all  lovers 
of  art  must  regret  to  find  Mr.  Landseer  wasting  his  energies  on  such  inanities 
as  the  "  Shoeing,"  and  sacrificing  color,  expression,  and  action,  to  an  imita- 
tion of  glossy  hide. 


8C.  II.  CH.  IV.J      OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


199 


animal  type,  muscular  and  living,  and  with  broad,  pure,  sunny 
daylight  upon  him,  and  bearing  his  true  and  harmonious  relatioD 
of  color  to  all  color  about  him.    This  is  ideal  treatment. 

The  same  treatment  is  found  in  the  works  of  all  the  greatest 
men,  they  all  paint  the  lion .  more  than  his  mane,  and  the  horso 
rather  than  his  hide ;  and  I  think  also  they  are  more  careful  to 
obtain  the  right  expression  of  large  and  universal  light  and  color, 
than  local  tints ;  for  the  warmth  of  sunshine,  and  the  force  of  sun- 
lighted  hue  are  always  sublime  on  whatever  subject  they  may  be 
exhibited  ;  and  so  also  are  light  and  shade,  if  grandly  arranged, 
as  may  be  well  seen  in  an  etching  of  Rembrandt's  of  a  spotted 
shell,  which  he  has  made  altogether  sublime  by  broad  truth  and 
large  ideahty  of  light  and  shade ;  and  so  I  have  seen  frequent  in- 
stances of  very  grand  ideality  in  treatment  of  the  most  common- 
place still  life,  by  our  own  Hunt,  where  the  petty  glosses  and  deli- 
cacies, and  minor  forms,  are  all  merged  in  a  broad  glow  of  suf- 
fused color ;  so  also  in  pieces  of  the  same  kind  by  Etty,  where, 
however,  though  the  richness  and  play  of  color  are  greater,  and 
the  arrangement  grander,  there  is  less  expression  of  hght,  neither 
is  there  anything  in  modern  art  that  can  be  set  beside  some  choice 
passages  of  Hunt  in  this  respect. 

Again,  it  is  possible  to  represent  objects  capable  of  ^  12.  Abstrac- 
various  accidents  in  a  P-eneric  or  symbolical  form.  typical 

o  -  representation 

How  far  this  may  be  done  with  things  having  ne-  of  animal  form, 
cessary  form,  as  animals,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  The  lions  of 
the  Egyptian  room  in  the  British  Museum,  and  the  fish  beside 
Michael  Angelo's  Jonah,  are  instances  ;  and  there  is  imaginative 
power  about  both  which  we  find  not  in  the  more  perfectly  reahzed 
Florentine  boar,  nor  in  RafFaclle's  fish  of  the  draught.  And  yet 
the  propriety  and  nobility  of  these  types  depend  on  the  architec- 
tural use  and  character  of  the  one,  and  on  the  typical  meaning  of 
the  other :  we  should  be  grieved  to  see  the  forms  of  the  Egyptian 
lion  substituted  for  those  of  Raffaelle's  in  its  struggle  with  Sam- 
son, nor  would  the  whale  of  Michael  Angelo  be  tolerated  in  the 
nets  of  Gennesaret.  So  that  I  think  it  is  only  when  the  figure  of 
the  creature  stands  not  for  any  representation  of  vitality,  but 
merely  for  a  letter  or  type  of  certain  symbolical  meaning,  or 
else  is  adopted  as  a  grand  form  of  decoration  or  support  in  archi- 
tecture, that  such  generalization  is  allowable,  and  in  such  circum- 


200 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


[part  ul 


stances  I  think  it  necessary,  always  provided  it  be  based,  as  in  the 
instances  given  I  conceive  it  to  be,  upon  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  creature  symbolized  and  wrought  out  by  a  master  hand ;  and 
these  conditions  being  observed,  I  believe  it  to  be  right  and  ne- 
§  13  Either  cessary  in  architecture  to  modify  all  animal  forms  by 
when  it  is  syin-  a  sevore  architectural  stamp,  and  in  symbolical  use  of 

bolically  used,  •     i  -  •  i 

them,  to  adopt  a  typical  form,  to  wnich  practice  the 
contrary,  and  its  evil  consequences  are  ludicrously  exhibited  in  the 
St.  Peter  of  Carlo  Dolci  in  the  Pitti  palace,  which  owing  to  the 
prominent,  glossy-plumed  and  crimson- combed  cock,  is  Hable  to  be 
taken  for  the  portrait  of  a  poulterer,  only  let  it  be  observed  that 
the  treatment  of  the  animal  form  here  is  offensive,  not  only  from 
its  realization,  but  from  the  pettiness  and  meanness  of  its  realiza- 
tion ;  for  it  might,  in  other  hands  but  Carlo  Dolci's,  have  been  a 
sublime  cock,  though  a  real  one,  but  in  his,  it  is  fit  for  nothing 
but  the  spit.  Compare  as  an  example  partly  of  symbolical  treat- 
ment, partly  of  magnificent  realization,  that  supernatural  lion  of 
Tintoret,  in  the  picture  of  the  Doge  Loredano  before  the  Madonna, 
with  the  plumes  of  his  mighty  wings  clashed  together  in  cloudlike 
repose,  and  the  strength  of  the  sea  winds  shut  within  their  fold- 
ing. And  note  farther  the  difference  between  the  typical  use  of 
the  animal,  as  in  this  case,  and  that  of  the  fish  of  Jonah,  (and  again 
the  fish  before  mentioned  whose  form  is  indicated  in  the  clouds 
of  the  baptism,)  and  the  actual  occurrence  of  the  creature  itself, 
with  concealed  meaning,  as  the  ass  colt  of  the  crucifixion,  which 
it  was  necessary  to  paint  as  such,  and  not  as  an  ideal  form. 

I  cannot  enter  here  into  the  question  of  the  exact 
chitectural  de-  degree  of  severity  and  abstraction  necessary  in  the 
coration.  forms  of  living  things  architecturally  employed ;  my 
own  feeling  on  the  subject  is,  though  I  dare  not  lay  it  down  as  a 
principle,  (with  the  Parthenon  pediment  standing  against  me  like 
the  shield  of  Ajax,)  that  no  perfect  representation  of  animal  form 
is  right  in  architectural  decoration.  For  my  OAvn  part,  I  had  much 
rather  see  the  metopes  in  the  Elgin  room  of  the  British  Museum, 
and  the  Parthenon  without  them,  than  have  them  together,  and  I 
would  not  surrender,  in  an  architectural  point  of  view,  one  mighty 
line  of  the  colossal,  quiet,  life-in-death  statue  mountains  in  Egypt 
with  their  narrow  fixed  eyes  and  hands  on  their  rocky  limbs,  nor 
one  Romanesque  facade  with  its  porphyry  mosaic  of  indefinable 


BC.  II.  CH.  IV.J       OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


201 


monsters,  nor  one  Gothic  moulding  of  rigid  saints  and  grinning 
goblins,  for  ten  Parthenons ;  and,  I  believe,  I  could  show  some 
rational  ground  for  this  seeming  barbarity  if  this  were  the  place 
to  do  so,  but  at  present  I  can  only  ask  the  reader  to  compare  the 
effect  of  the  so-called  barbarous  ancient  mosaics  on  the  front  of 
St.  Mark's,  as  they  have  been  recorded,  happily,  by  the  faithful 
ness  of  the  good  Gentile  Bellini,  in  one  of  his  pictures  now  in  the 
Venice  gallery,  with  the  ^'eritably  barbarous  pictorial  substitutions 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  (one  only  of  the  old  mosaics  remains,  or 
did  remain  till  lately,  over  the  northern  door,  but  it  is  probably 
by  this  time  torn  down  by  some  of  the  Venetian  committees  of 
taste,)  and  also  I  would  have  the  old  portions  of  the  interior  ceil- 
ing, or  of  the  mosaics  of  Murano  and  Torcello,  and  the  glorious 
Cimabue  mosaic  of  Pisa,  and  the  roof  of  the  Baptistery  at  Parma, 
(that  of  the  Florence  Baptistery  is  a  bad  example,  owing  to  its 
crude  whites  and  complicated  mosaic  of  small  forms,)  all  of  which 
are  as  barbarous  as  they  can  well  be,  in  a  certain  sense,  but 
mighty  in  their  barbarism,  with  any  architectural  decorations 
whatsoever,  consisting  of  professedly  perfect  animal  forms,  from 
the  vile  frescoes  of  Federigo  Zuccaro  at  Florence  to  the  ceiling  of 
the  Sistine,  and  again  compare  the  professedly  perfect  sculpture 
of  Milan  Cathedral  with  the  statues  of  the  porches  of  Chartres  ; 
only  be  it  always  observed  that  it  is  not  rudeness  and  ^  ^5  Exception 
iornorance  of  art,  but  intellectually  awful  abstraction  '^^  ^^eikate  and 

o  '  J  superimposed 

that  I  uphold,  and  also  be  it  noted  that  in  all  orna-  ornament, 
ment,  which  takes  place  in  the  general  effect  merely  as  so  much 
fretted  stone,  in  capitals  and  other  pieces  of  minute  detail,  the 
forms  may  be,  and  perhaps  ought  to  be,  elaborately  imitative ;  and 
in  this  respect  again  the  capitals  of  St.  Mark's  church,  and  of  the 
Doge's  palace  at  Venice  may  be  an  example  to  the  architects  of 
all  the  world,  in  their  boundless  inventiveness,  unfailing  elegance, 
and  elaborate  finish  ;  there  is  more  mind  poured  out  in  turning  a 
single  angle  of  that  church  than  would  serve  to  build  a  modern 
cathedral  ;^  and  of  the  careful  finish  of  the  work,  this  may  serve 

*  I  have  not  brought  forward  any  instances  of  the  imaginative  power  in 
architecture,  as  my  object  is  not  at  present  to  exhibit  its  operation  in  all  mat- 
ter, but  only  to  define  its  essence ;  but  it  may  be  well  to  note,  in  our  own  new 
houses  of  Parliament,  how  far  a  building  approved  by  a  committee  of  Taste^ 
may  proceed  without  manifestation  either  of  imagination  or  comi)osition :  it 

9* 


202 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE.  [pART  lit 


for  exampl(3,  that  one  of  the  capitals  of  the  Doge's  palace  is 
formed  of  eight  heads  of  different  animals,  of  which  one  is  a 
bear's  with  a  honeycomb  in  the  mouth,  whose  carved  cells  are 
hexagonal. 

§  16  Abstrac-  then,  of  the  abstraction  proper  to  architec- 

tion  necessary  ture,  and  to  symbcHcal  uses,  of  which  I  shall  have  oc- 

from  iniperfec-         .  i         i        /.  . 

tion  of  mate-  casion  to  speak  hereaiter  at  length,  referring  to  it  only 
at  present  as  one  of  the  operations  of  imagination  con- 
templative ;  other  abstractions  there  are  which  are  necessarily  con- 
sequent on  the  imperfection  of  materials,  as  of  the  hair  in  sculpture, 
w^hich  is  necessarily  treated  in  masses  that  are  in  no  sort  imitative, 
but  only  stand  for  hair,  and  have  the  grace,  flow,  and  feeling  of 
it  without  the  texture  or  division,  and  other  abstractions  there  are 
in  which  the  form  of  one  thing  is  fancifully  indicated  in  the  mat- 
ter of  ail  other  ;  as  in  phantoms  and  cloud  shapes,  the  use  of  which, 
in  mighty  hands,  is  often  most  impres:qve,  as  in  the  cloudy  char- 
ioted Apollo  of  Nicolo  Poussin  in  our  own  gallery,  which  the 
reader  may  oppose  to  the  substantial  Apollo,  in  Wilson's  Niobe, 
and  again  the  phantom  vignette  of  Turner  already  noticed ;  only 
such  operations  of  the  imagination  are  to  be  held  of  lower  kind 
and  dangerous  consequence,  if  frequently  trusted  in,  for  those 
painters  only  have  the  right  imaginative  power  who  can  set  the 
supernatural  form  before  us  fleshed  and  boned  like  ourselves.* 
Other  abstractions  occur,  frequently,  of  things  which  have  much 
accidental  variety  of  form,  as  of  waves,  on  Greek  sculptures  in 
§  17.  Abstrac-  succcssive  volutes,  and  of  clouds  often  in  supporting 
capable^  of  ^  va-  volumes  in  the  sacred  pictures ;  but  these  I  do  not 
are^'norTmagi-  "^^^'^  upon  as  rosults  of  imagination  at  all,  but  mere 
native.  signs  and  letters  ;  and  whenever  a  very  highly  imagi- 

native mind  touches  them,  it  always  realizes  as  far  as  may  be. 
Even  Titian  is  content  to  use  at  the  top  of  his  St.  Pietro  Martiri, 
the  conventional,  round,  opaque  cloud,  which  cuts  his  trees  open 
like  a  gouge  ;  but  Tintoret,  in  his  picture  of  the  Golden  Calf, 

remains  to  be  seen  how  far  the  towers  may  redeem  it ;  and  I  allude  to  it  at 
present  unwillingly,  and  only  in  the  desire  of  influencing,  so  far  as  I  may, 
those  who  have  the  power  to  prevent  the  adoption  of  a  design  for  a  bridge  to 
take  place  of  Westminster,  which  was  exhibited  in  1844  at  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy, professing  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  new  building,  but  which  was  fil 
only  to  carry  a  railroad  over  a  canal. 
♦  Comp.  Ch.  V.  §  5. 


sc.  n   CH.  IV.]       OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLAriVE. 


203 


though  compelled  to  represent  the  Sinai  under  conventional  form, 
in  order  that  the  receiving  of  the  tables  might  be  seen  at  the  top 
of  it,  yet  so  soon  as  it  is  possible  to  give  more  truth,  he  is  ready 
with  it ;  he  takes  a  grand  fold  of  horizontal  cloud  straight  from 
the  flanks  of  the  Alps,  and  shows  the  forests  of  the  mountains 
through  its  misty  volume,  hke  sea- weed  through  deep  sea."* 
Nevertheless  when  the  realization  is  impossible,  bold  §  ig.  Yet  some- 
symbolism  is  of  the  highest  value,  and  in  religious  ^^^^^  valuable 
art,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  even  necessary,  as  of  the  rays  of 
light  in  the  Titian  woodcut  of  St.  Francis  before  noticed ;  and 
sometimes  the  attention  is  directed  by  some  such  strange  form  to 
the  meaning  of  the  image,  which  may  be  missed  if  it  remains  in 
its  natural  purity,  (as,  I  suppose,  few  in  looking  at  the  Cephalus 
and  Procris  of  Turner,  note  the  sympathy  of  those  faint  rays  that 
are  just  drawing  back  and  dying  between  the  trunks  of  the  far- 
off  forest,  with  the  ebbing  life  of  the  nymph ;  imless,  indeed,  they 
happen  to  recollect  the  same  sympathy  marked  by  Shelley  in  the 
Alastor  ;)  but  the  imagination  is  not  shown  in  any  such  modifi- 
cations ;  however,  in  some  cases  they  may  be  valuable  (in  the 
Cephalus  they  would  be  utterly  destructive,)  and  I  note  them 
merely  in  consequence  of  their  peculiar  use  in  religious  art,  pres- 
ently to  be  examined. 

The  last  mode  we  have  here  to  note  in  which  the  §  19.  Exagge- 
imagination  regardant  may  be  expressed  in  art  is  ex-  and^muits!^^^^^ 
aggeration,  of  which,  as  it  is  the  vice  of  all  bad  artists,  of^^representa- 
and  may  be  constantly  resorted  to  without  any  warrant  ^i^^- 
of  imagination,  it  is  necessary  to  note  strictly  the  admissible  limits. 

In  the  first  place,  a  colossal  statue  is  necessarily  no  more  an 
exaggeration  of  what  it  represents  than  a  miniature  is  a  diminution, 
it  r  eed  not  be  a  representation  of  a  giant,  but  a  representation,  on 
a  large  scale,  of  a  man ;  only  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  as  any 
plane  intersecting  the  cone  of  rays  between  us  and  the  object,  must 
receive  an  image  smaller  than  the  object ;  a  small  image  is  ra- 
tbually  and  completely  expressive  of  a  larger  one  ;  but  not  a  large 
of  a  small  one.  Hence  I  think  that  all  statues  above  the  Elgin 
standard,  or  that  of  Michael  Angelo's  Night  and  Morning,  are,  in 
a  measure,  taken  by  the  eye  for  representations  of  giants,  and  T 

♦  All  the  clouds  of  Tintoret  are  sublime ;  the  worst  that  I  know  in  art  aif; 
Correggio's,  especially  in  the  Madonna  delhi  Scudella,  and  Dome  of  Parmu. 


204 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


[part  IIL 


think  them  always  disagreeable.  The  amount  of  exaggeration 
admitted  by  Michael  Angelo  is  valuable  because  it  separates  the 
emblematic  from  the  human  form,  and  gives  greater  freedom  to 
the  grand  lines  of  the  frame  ;  for  notice  of  his  scientific  system  ol 
increase  of  size  I  may  refer  the  reader  to  Sir  Charles  Bell's  re- 
marks on  the  statues  of  the  Medici  chapel ;  but  there  is  one  cir- 
cumstance which  Sir  Charles  has  not  noticed,  and  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  which,  therefore,  it  is  likely  I  may  be  myself  wrong ;  that 
the  extremities  are  singularly  small  in  proportion  to  the  limbs,  bv 
which  means  there  is  an  expression  given  of  strength  and  activity 
greater  than  in  the  ordinary  human  type,  which  appears  to  me  tc 
be  an  allowance  for  that  alteration  in  proportion  necessitated  by 
increase  of  size,  of  which  we  took  note  in  Chap.  VI.  of  the  first 
section,  §  10.,  note;  not  but  that  Michael  Angelo  always  makes 
the  extremities  comparatively  small,  but  smallest,  comparatively, 
in  his  largest  works  ;  so  I  think,  from  the  size  of  the  head,  it  may 
be  conjectured  respecting  the  Theseus  of  the  Elgins.  Such  adap- 
tations are  not  necessary  when  the  exaggerated  image  is  spectral : 
for  as  the  laws  of  matter  in  that  case  can  have  no  operation,  we 
may  expand  the  form  as  far  as  we  choose,  only  let  careful  dis- 
tinction be  made  between  the  size  of  the  thing  represented,  and 
the  scale  of  the  representation.  The  canvas  on  which  Fuseli  has 
stretched  his  Satan  in  the  schools  of  the  Royal  Academy  is  a  mere 
concession  to  inability.  He  might  have  made  him  look  more 
gigantic  in  one  of  a  foot  square. 

§  20.  Secondly.  Another  kind  of  exaggeration  is  of  things  whose 
plbie^Tfariety  ^izc  is  A^ariable  to  a  size  or  degree  greater  than  that 
of  scale.  usual  wi  th  them,  as  in  waves  and  mountains  ;  and 
there  are  hardly  any  limits  to  this  exaggeration  so  long  as  the 
laws  which  nature  observes  in  her  increase  be  observed.  Thus, 
for  instance :  the  form  and  polished  surface  of  a  breaking  ripple 
three  inches  high,  are  not  representation  of  either  the  form  or  the 
surface  of  the  surf  of  a  storm,  nodding  ten  feet  above  the  beach ; 
neither  would  the  cutting  ripple  of  a  breeze  upon  a  lake  if  simply 
exaggerated,  represent  the  forms  of  Atlantic  surges ;  but  as  na- 
ture increases  her  bulk,  she  diminishes  the  angles  of  ascent,  and 
increases  her  divisions ;  and  if  we  would  represent  surges  of  size 
greater  than  ever  existed,  which  it  is  lawful  to  do,  we  must  carry 
out  these  operations  to  still  greater  extent.    Thus  Turner,  in  his 


BC.  II.  CH.  IV.]       OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


205 


picture  of  the  Slave  Ship,  divides  the  whole  sea  into  two  masses 
of  enormous  swell,  and  conceals  the  horizon  by  a  gradual  slope  of 
only  two  or  three  degrees.  This  is  intellectual  exaggeration.  In 
the  Academy  exhibition  of  1843,  there  was,  in  one  of  the  smaller 
rooms,  a  black  picture  of  a  storm,  in  which  there  appeared  on  the 
near  sea,  just  about  to  be  overwhelmed  by  an  enormous  breaker, 
curling  right  over  it,  an  object  at  first  sight  liable  to  be  taken  for 
a  walnut  shell,  but  which,  on  close  examination,  proved  to  be  a 
ship  with  mast  and  sail,  with  Christ  and  his  twelve  disciples  in  it 
This  is  childish  exaggeration,  because  it  is  impossible,  by  the  laws 
of  matter  and  motion,  that  such  a  breaker  should  ever  exist. 
Again  in  mountains,  we  have  repeatedly  observed  the  necessary 
building  up  and  multitudinous  division  of  the  higher  peaks,  and 
the  smallness  of  the  slopes  by  which  they  usually  rise.  We  may, 
therefore,  build  up  the  mountain  as  higli  as  we  please,  but  we 
must  do  it  in  nature's  way,  and  not  in  impossible  peaks  and  pre- 
cipices ;  not  but  that  a  daring  feature  is  admissible  here  and  there, 
as  the  Matterhorn  is  admitted  by  nature  ;  but  we  must  not  com- 
pose a  picture  out  of  such  exceptions  ;  we  may  use  them,  but  they 
must  be  as  exceptions  exhibited.  I  shall  have  much  to  say,  when 
we  come  to  treat  of  the  sublime,  of  the  various  modes  of  treating 
mountain  form,  so  that  at  present  I  shall  only  point  to  an  unfor- 
tunate instance  of  inexcusable  and  effectless  exaggeration  in  the 
distance  of  Turner's  vignette  to  Milton,  (the  temptation  on  the 
mountain,)  and  desire  the  reader  to  compare  it  with  legitimate 
exaggeration,  in  the  vignette  to  the  second  part  of  Jacqueline, 
in  Rogers's  poems. 

Another  kind  of  exaggeration  is  necessary  to  retain  §  21.  Thirdly 
the  characteristic  impressions  of  nature  on  reduced  expression  of 
scale ;  it  is  not  possible,  for  instance,  to  give  the  leaf-  fea^ures^on^di- 
age  of  trees  in  its  proper  proportion,  when  the  trees  minished  scale, 
represented  are  large,  without  entirely  losing  their  grace  of  form 
and  curvature ;  of  this  the  best  proof  is  found  in  the  Calotype  01 
Daguerreotype,  which  fail  in  foliage,  not  only  because  the  green 
rays  are  ineffective,  but  because,  on  the  small  scale  of  the  image, 
the  reduced  leaves  lose  their  organization,  and  look  like  moss  at- 
tached to  sticks.  In  order  to  retain,  therefore,  the  character  of 
flexibility  and  beauty  of  foliage,  the  painter  is  often  compelled  to 
increase  the  proportionate  size  of  the  leaves,  and  to  arrange  them 


206 


OF  IMAGINATION  CONTEMPLATIVE. 


[part  III. 


in  generic  masses.  Of  this  treatment  compare  the  grand  examples 
throughout  the  Liber  Studiorum.  It  is  by  such  means  only  that 
the  ideal  character  of  objects  is  to  be  preserved ;  as  we  before 
observed  in  the  13th  chapter  of  the  first  section.  In  all  these 
cases  exaggeration  is  only  lawful  as  the  sole  means  of  arriving  at 
truth  of  impression  when  strict  fidelity  is  out  of  the  question. 

Other  modes  of  exaggeration  there  are,  on  which  I  shall  not  at 
present  farther  insist,  the  proper  place  for  their  discussion  being 
in  treating  of  the  sublime,  and  these  which  I  have  at  present  in- 
stanced are  enough  to  establish  the  point  at  issue,  respecting 
imaginative  verity,  inasmuch  as  we  find  that  exaggeration  itself, 
if  imaginative,  is  referred  to  principles  of  truth,  and  of  actua^ 
being. 

§  22.  Recapi-  We  have  now,  I  think,  reviewed  the  >\irious  modes 
tuiation.  which  imagination  contemplative  may  be  exhibited 

in  art,  and  arrived  at  all  necessary  certainties  respecting  the  es- 
sence of  the  faculty :  which  we  have  found  in  all  its  three  func- 
tions, associative  of  truth,  penetrative  of  truth,  and  contemplative 
of  truth ;  and  having  no  dealings  nor  relations  with  any  kind  of 
falsity.  One  task,  however  remains  to  us,  namely,  to  observe  the 
operation  of  the  theoretic  and  imaginative  faculties  together,  in 
the  attempt  at  realization  to  the  bodily  sense  of  beauty  super- 
natural  and  divine. 


CHAPTER  V. 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


In*  our  investigation  in  the  first  section  of  the  laws  ^  i  rj^^^^ 
of  beauty,  we  confined  ourselves  to  the  observation  of  iferVtreate^  in 
lower  nature,  or  of  humanity.  We  were  prevented  detail, 
from  proceeding  to  deduce  conclusions  respecting  divine  idealitj 
by  our  not  having  then  established  any  principles  respecting  the 
imaginative  faculty,  by  which,  under  the  discipline  of  the  theoretic, 
such  ideality  is  conceived.  I  had  purposed  to  conclude  the  pres- 
ent section  by  a  careful  examination  of  this  subject ;  but  as  this  is 
evidently  foreign  to  the  matter  immediately  under  discussion,  and 
involves  questions  of  great  intricacy  respecting  the  development 
of  mind  among  those  pagan  nations  who  are  supposed  to  have  pro- 
duced high  examples  of  spiritual  ideality,  I  believe  it  will  be  bet- 
ter to  delay  such  inquiries  until  we  have  concluded  our  detailed 
observation  of  the  beauty  of  visible  nature ;  and  I  shall  therefore 
at  present  take  notice  only  of  one  or  two  broad  principles,  which 
were  referred  to,  or  implied,  in  the  chapter  respecting  the  human 
ideal,  and  without  the  enunciation  of  which,  that  chapter  might 
lead  to  false  conclusions. 

There  are  four  ways  in  which  beings  supernatural    „  „ 

.     1  .        ,  ,  ,  f  2.  The  con- 

may  be  conceived  as  maniiestmg  themselves  to  human  ceivabie  modes 

sense.    The  first,  by  external  types,  signs,  or  influ-  tion  of  Spiritual 

ences  ;  as  God  to  Moses  in  the  flames  of  the  bush,  and  ^^^^g^^^^^'^^^- 

to  Elijah  in  the  voice  of  Horeb. 

The  second,  by  the  assuming  of  a  form  not  properly  belonging 
to  them ;  as  the  Holy  Spirit  of  that  of  a  Dove,  the  second  person 
of  the  Trinity  of  that  of  a  Lamb ;  and  so  such  manifestations,  un- 
der angelic  or  other  form,  of  the  first  person  of  the  Trinity,  as 
seem  to  have  been  made  to  Abraham,  Moses,  and  Ezekiel. 

The  third,  by  the  manifestation  of  a  form  properly  belonging  to 
them,  but  not  necessarily  seen ;  as  of  the  Risen  Christ  to  his  disci- 


208 


OF  THE  SI  PERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


[part  III» 


pies  when  the  doors  were  shut.  And  the  fourth,  by  then*  opera- 
tion on  the  human  form,  which  they  influence  or  inspire,  as  in  the 
shining  of  the  face  of  Moses. 

§  3.  And  these  evident  that  in  all  these  cases,  wherever  tnere 

are  in  or  fQyjxi  at  all,  it  is  the  form  of  some  creature  to  us 

through   crea-  ' 

ture  forms  fa-  kuown.    It  is  uo  new  form  peculiar  to  spirit  nor  can 

miliar  to  us.       .  .  r\      •        -      *  ' 

it  be.  We  can  conceive  of  none.  Our  inquiry  is  sim- 
ply, therefore,  by  what  modifications  those  creature  forms  to  us 
knoAvn,  as  of  a  lamb,  a  bird,  or  a  human  creature,  may  be  explained 
as  signs  or  habitations  of  Divinity,  or  of  angelic  essence,  and  not 
creatures  such  they  seem. 

§  4.  Supernat-  This  may  be  done  in  two  ways.  First,  by  effecting 
may  be^im-^^  some  change  in  the  appearance  of  the  creature  incon- 
thesreither  by  ^1^^^^^  with.  its  actual  nature,  as  by  giving  it  colossal 
phenomena  in-  gjze,  or  uuuatural  color,  Or  material,  as  of  srold,  or  sil- 

consistent  with  ,  '  o  ' 

their  common  ver,  or  flame,  instead  of  flesh,  or  by  taking  away  its 
pare^ciiap?47§  property  of  matter  altogether,  and  forming  it  of  light 
■^^■^  or  shade,  or  in  an  intermediate  step,  of  cloud,  or  va- 

por ;  or  explaining  it  by  terrible  concomitant  circumstances,  as  of 
wounds  in  the  body,  or  strange  lights  and  seemings  round  about 
it ;  or  by  joining  of  two  bodies  together  as  in  angels'  wings.  Of 
all  which  means  of  attaining  supernatural  character  (which  though, 
in  their  nature  ordinary  and  vulgar,  are  yet  effective  and  very  glo- 
rious in  mighty  hands)  we  have  already  seen  the  limits  in  speak- 
ing of  the  imagination. 

§  5.  Or  by  in-  ^^^^  secoiid  means  of  obtaining  supernatural 
herent  Dignity,  character  is  that  with  which  we  are  now  concerned, 
namely,  retaining  the  actual  form  in  its  full  and  material  presence, 
and  without  aid  from  any  external  interpretation  whatsoever,  to 
raise  that  form  by  mere  inherent  dignity  to  such  a  pitch  of  power 
and  impressiveness  as  cannot  but  assert  and  stamp  it  for  super- 
human. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  are  a  series  of 
paintings  from  the  Old  Testament  History  by  Benozzo  Gozzoli. 
In  the  earlier  of  these,  angelic  presences,  mingled  with  human, 
occur  frequently,  illustrated  by  no  awfulness  of  light,  nor  incorpo- 
real tracing.  Clear  revealed  they  move,  in  human  forms,  in  the 
broad  daylight  and  on  the  open  earth,  side  by  side,  and,  hand  in 
hand  with  men.    But  they  never  miss  of  the  angel. 


gc.  II.  CH.  v.] 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


209 


He  who  can  do  this  has  reached  the  last  pinnacle  and  utmost 
power  of  ideal,  or  any  other  art.  He  stands  in  no  need,  thence- 
forward, of  cloud,  nor  lightning,  nor  tempest,  nor  terror  of  mys- 
tery. His  sublime  is  independent  of  the  elements.  It  is  of  that 
which  shall  stand  when  they  shall  melt  with  fervent  heat,  and  light 
the  firmament  when  the  sun  is  as  sackcloth  of  hair. 

Let  us  consider  by  what  means  this  has  been  ef- 

1         n  11  1     •  11  ,     §  6.  1st.  Of 

fected,  so  lar  as  they  are  by  analysis  traceable ;  and  the  expression 
that  is  not  far,  for  here,  as  always,  we  find  that  the 
greater  part  of  what  has  been  rightly  accomplished  has  been  done 
by  faith  and  intense  feeling,  and  cannot,  by  aid  of  any  rules  or 
teaching,  be  either  tried,  estimated,  or  imitated. 

And  first,  of  the  expression  of  supernatural  influence  on  forms 
actually  human,  as  of  sibyl  or  prophet  It  is  evident  that  not  only 
here  is  it  unnecessar}^  but  we  are  not  altogether  at  liberty  to  trust 
for  expression  to  the  utmost  ennobling  of  the  human  form  :  for  we 
cannot  do  more  than  this,  when  that  form  is  to  be  the  actual  rep- 
resentation, and  not  the  recipient  of  divine  presence.  Hence,  in 
order  to  retain  the  actual  humanity  definitely,  we  must  leave  upon 
it  such  signs  of  the  operation  of  sin  and  the  liability  to  death  as 
are  consistent  with  human  ideality,  and  often  more  than  these, 
definite  signs  of  immediate  and  active  evil,  when  the  prophetic 
spirit  is  to  be  expressed  in  men  such  as  were  Saul  and  Balaam ; 
neither  may  we  ever,  with  just  discrimination,  touch  the  utmost 
limits  of  beauty  in  human  form  when  inspiration  is  to  be  expressed 
and  not  angelic  or  divine  being ;  of  which  reserve  and  subjection 
the  most  instructive  instances  are  found  in  the  works  of  Angelico, 
who  invariably  uses  inferior  types  for  the  features  of  humanity, 
even  glorified,  (excepting  always  the  Madonna,)  nor  ever  exerts  his 
full  power  of  beauty  either  in  feature  or  expression  except  in  an- 
gels or  in  the  Madonna  or  in  Christ.  Now  the  expression  of  spir- 
itual influence  without  supreme  elevation  of  the  bodily  type  we 
have  seen  to  be  a  work  of  imagination  penetrative,  and  we  found  it 
accomplished  by  Michael  Angelo ;  but  I  think  by  him  only.  I 
am  aware  of  no  one  else  who,  to  my  mind,  has  expressed  the  in- 
spiration of  prophet  or  sibyl ;  this  however  I  aflnirm  not,  but  shall 
leave  to  the  determination  of  the  reader,  as  the  principles  at 
present  to  be  noted  refer  entirely  to  that  elevation  of  the  creature 
form  necessary  when  it  is  actually  representative  of  a  spiritual  being. 


210 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


[part  III 


§  7  No  repre-  I  have  affirmed  in  the  conclusion  of  the  first  sec- 
that^'^which  ^is  ^^0^  that  "  of  that  which  is  more  than  creature  no 
Surelspos-  creature  ever  conceived."  I  think  this  almost  self- 
evident,  for  it  is  clear  that  the  illimitableness  of  Di- 
vine attributes  cannot  be  by  matter  represented,  (though  it  may 
be  typified,)  and  I  believe  that  all  who  are  acquainted  with  the 
range  of  sacred  art  will  admit,  not  only  that  no  representation  of 
Christ  has  ever  been  even  partially  successful,  but  that  the  greatest 
painters  fall  therein  below  their  accustomed  level ;  Perugino  and 
Fra  Angelico  especially  ;  Leonardi  has  I  think  done  best,  but  per- 
haps the  beauty  of  the  fragment  left  at  Milan  (for  in  spite  of  all 
that  is  said  of  repainting  and  destruction,  that  Cenacolo  is  still  the 
finest  in  existence)  is  as  much  dependent  on  the  very  untraceable- 
ness  resulting  from  injury  as  on  its  original  perfection.  Of  more 
daring  attempts  at  representation  of  Divinity  we  need  not  speak ; 
only  this  is  to  be  noted  respecting  them,  that  though  by  the  ig- 
norant Romanists  many  such  efforts  were  made  under  the  idea  of 
actual  representation,  (note  the  way  in  which  Cellini  speaks  of  the 
seal  made  for  the  Pope,)  by  the  nobler  among  them  I  suppose 
they  were  intended,  and  by  us  at  any  rate  they  may  always  be 
received,  as  mere  symbols,  the  noblest  that  could  be  employed, 
but  as  much  symbols  still  as  a  triangle,  or  the  Alpha  and  Omega ; 
nor  do  I  think  that  the  most  scrupulous  amongst  Christians  ought 
to  desire  to  exchange  the  power  obtained  by  the  use  of  this  sym- 
bol in  Michael  Angelo's  creation  of  Adam  and  of  Eve  for  the  effec : 
which  would  be  produced  by  the  substitution  of  a  triangle  or  any 
other  sign  in  place  of  it.  Of  these  efforts  then  we  need  reason  no 
farther,  but  may  limit  ourselves  to  considering  the  purest  modes 
of  giving  a  conception  of  superhuman  but  still  creature  form,  as 
of  angels ;  in  equal  rank  with  whom,  perhaps,  we  may  without  of- 
fence place  the  mother  of  Christ :  at  least  we  must  so  regard  the 
type  of  the  Madonna  in  receiving  it  from  Romanist  painters."^ 

*  I  take  no  note  of  the  representation  of  evil  spirits,  since  throughout  we 
liave  been  occupied  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty ;  but  it  may  be  observed  gener- 
ally that  there  is  great  difficulty  to  be  overcome  in  attempts  of  this  kindj  be- 
cause the  elevation  of  the  form  necessary  to  give  it  spirituality  destroys  the 
appearance  of  evil ;  hence  even  the  greatest  painters  have  been  reduced  to 
receive  aid  from  the  fancy,  and  to  eke  out  all  they  could  conceive  of  malignity 
by  help  of  horns,  hoofs,  and  claws.    Giotto's  Satan  in  the  Campo  Santo,  with 


BO.  II.  CH.  v.] 


OF  THE   SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


211 


And  first,  much  is  to  be  done  by  right  modification  ^  ^  supcrna 
of  accessory  circumstances,  so  as  to  express  miracu-  ^"p^^^J^g^^^^^^^* 
lous  power  exercised  over  them  by  the  spiritual  modification  of 
creature.  There  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  this  in 
John  Bellini's  picture  of  St.  Jerome  at  Venice.  The  saint  sits 
npon  a  rock,  his  grand  form  defined  against  clear  green  open 
sky  ;  he  is  reading,  a  noble  tree  springs  out  of  a  cleft  in  the  rock, 
bends  itself  suddenly  back  to  form  a  rest  for  the  volume,  tlien 
shoots  up  into  the  sky.  There  is  something  very  beautiful  in  this 
obedient  ministry  of  the  lower  creature ;  but  be  it  observed  that 
the  sweet  feeling  of  the  whole  depends  upon  the  service  being 
such  as  is  consistent  with  its  nature.  It  is  not  animated,  it  does 
not  listen  to  the  saint,  nor  bend  itself  towards  him  as  if  in  affec- 
tion, this  would  have  been  mere  fancy,  illegitimate  and  effectless. 
But  the  simple  bend  of  the  trunk  to  receive  the  book  is  miracu- 
lous subjection  of  the  true  nature  of  the  tree ;  it  is  therefore 
imaginative,  and  very  touching. 

It  is  not  often  however  that  the  religious  painters  §  9.  Landscape 
even  go  this  length  ;  they  content  themselves  usually  plin^ers^^^^^ 
with  impressing  on  the  landscape  perfect  symmetry  eminenUy  sym- 
and  order,  such  as  may  seem  consistent  with,  or  in-  metrical, 
duced  by  the  spiritual  nature  they  would  represent.  All  signs 
of  decay,  disturbance,  and  imperfection,  are  also  banished ;  and 
in  doing  this  it  is  evident  that  some  unnaturalness  and  singularity 
must  result",  inasmuch  as  there  are  no  veritable  forms  of  landscape 
but  express  or  imply  a  state  of  progression  or  of  imperfection. 
All  mountain  forms  are  seen  to  be  produced  by  convulsion  and 


the  serpent  gnawing  the  heart,  is  fine ;  so  many  of  the  fiends  of  Orcagna,  and 
always  those  of  Michael  Angelo.  Tintoret  in  the  Temptation,  with  his  usual 
truth  of  invention,  has  represented  the  evil  spirit  under  the  form  of  a  fair 
angel,  the  wings  burning  with  crimson  and  silver,  the  face  sensual  and  treach- 
erous. It  is  instructive  to  compare  the  results  of  imagination  associated  with 
powerful  fancy  in  the  demons  of  these  great  painters,  or  even  in  such  night- 
mares as  that  of  Salvator  already  spoken  of,  Sect.  I.  Chap.  V.  §  12  (note,) 
with  the  simple  ugliness  of  idiotic  distortion  in  the  meaningless  terrorless  mon- 
sters cf  Bronzino  in  the  large  picture  of  the  Uffizii,  where  the  painter,  utterly 
uninvi  ntive,  having  assembled  all  that  is  abominable  of  hanging  flesh,  bony 
limbs,  crane  necks,  staring  eyes,  and  straggling  hair,  cannot  yet  by  the  sum 
and  substance  of  all  obtain  as  much  real  fcarfulness  as  an  imaginative  paintet 
cx>Qld  throw  into  the  turn  of  a  lip  or  the  knitting  of  a  brow. 


212 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


[part  IIL 


modelled  by  decay  ;  the  finer  forms  of  cloud  have  stories  in  them 
about  storm  ;  all  forest  grouping  is  wrought  out  with  varieties  of 
strength  and  growth  among  its  several  members,  and  bears  evi- 
dences of  struggle  with  unkind  influences.  All  such  appearances 
are  banished  in  the  supernatural  landscape ;  the  trees  grow 
straight,  equally  branched  on  each  side,  and  of  such  slight  and 
feathery  frame  as  shows  them  never  to  have  encountered  blight 
or  frost  or  tempest.  The  mountains  stand  up  in  fantastic  pinna* 
cles  ;  there  is  on  them  no  trace  of  torrent,  no  scathe  of  lightning  ; 
no  fallen  fragments  encumber  their  foundations,  no  worn  ravines 
divide  their  flanks ;  the  seas  are  always  waveless,  the  skies 
always  calm,  crossed  only  by  fair,  horizontal,  lightly  wreathed, 
white  clouds. 

^    ,         In  some  cases  these  conditions  result  partly  from 

§  10.  Land-  ,  ,  r  J 

Bcape  of  Benoz-  feelius:,  partly  from  ignorance  of  the  facts  of  nature, 

zoGozzoli.  .  ^  ...        .       ^  .         ,  .       I  r. 

or  mcapability  oi  representmg  them,  as  m  the  nrst 
type  of  the  treatment  found  in  Giotto  and  his  school ;  in  others 
they  are  observed  on  principle,  as  by  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  Perugino, 
and  Raffaelle.  There  is  a  beautiful  instance  by  the  former  in  the 
frescoes  of  the  Ricardi  palace,  w^here  behind  the  adoring  angel 
groups  the  landscape  is  governed  by  the  most  absolute  symmetry ; 
roses  and  pomegranates,  their  leaves  drawn  to  the  last  rib  and 
vein,  tvv'ine  themselves  in  fair  and  perfect  order  about  delicate 
trellises ;  broad  stone  pines  and  tall  cypresses  overshadow  them, 
bright  birds  hover  here  and  there  in  the  serene  sky,  and  groups 
of  angels,  hand  joijied  with  hand,  and  wing  with  wing,  glide  and 
float  through  the  glades  of  the  unentangled  forest.  But  behind 
the  human  figures,  behind  the  pomp  and  turbulence  of  the  Kingly 
procession  descending  from  the  distant  hills  the  spirit  of  the  land- 
scape is  changed.  Severer  mountains  rise  in  the  distance,  ruder 
prominences  and  less  flowery  vary  the  nearer  ground,  and  gloomy 
shadows  I'emain  unbroken  beneath  the  forest  branches. 
^  11.  Land-  The  landscape  of  Perugino,  for  grace,  purity  and 
ginra^d^Raf-  much  of  nature  as  is  consistent  with  the  above- 
faeiie.  named  conditions,  is  unrivalled  ;  and  the  more  inte- 

resting because  in  him  certainly  whatever  limits  are  set  to  the 
rendering  of  nature  proceed  not  from  incapability.  The  sea  is  in 
the  distance  almost  always,  then  some  blue  promontories  and  un- 
dulating dewy  park  ground,  studded  with  glittering  trees  ;  in  the 


sc.  II.  OH.  V.J 


OF  THE   SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


213 


landscape  of  tJ.e  fresco  in  S*^.  Maria  Maddalena  at  Florence  theie 
is  more  variety  than  is  usual  with  him  ;  a  gentle  river  winds  round 
the  bases  of  rocky  hills,  a  river  like  our  own  Wye  or  Tees  in  their 
loveliest  reaches ;  level  meadows  stretch  away  on  its  opposite 
side  ;  mounds  set  v^ith  slender-stemmed  foliage  occupy  the  nearei 
ground,  a  small  village  with  its  simple  spire  peeps  from  the  forest 
at  the  bend  of  the  valley,  and  it  is  remarkable  that  in  architecture 
thus  employed  neither  Perugino  nor  any  other  of  the  ideal  paint- 
ers ever  use  Italian  forms  but  always  Transalpine,  both  of  church 
and  castle.  The  little  landscape  w^hich  forms  the  background  of 
his  own  portrait  in  the  Uffizii  is  another  highly  finished  and  char- 
acteristic example.  The  landscape  of  RafFaelle  was  learned  from 
his  father,  and  continued  for  some  time  little  modified,  though 
expressed  with  greater  refinement.  It  became  afterwards  conven- 
tional and  poor,  and  in  some  cases  altogether  meaningless.  The 
haystacks  and  vulgar  trees  behind  the  St.  Cecilia  at  Bologna  form 
a  painful  contrast  to  the  pure  space  of  mountain  country  in  the 
Perugino  opposite.* 

In  all  these  cases,  while  I  would  uphold  the  land-  ^  ^g.  Such 
scape  thus  employed  and  treated,  as  worthy  of  all  ^orto^be  imi- 
admiration,  I  should  be  sorry  to  advance  it  for  imi-  *^a^^ed. 
tation.  What  is  right  in  its  mannerism  arose  from  keen  feeling  in 
the  painter :  imitated  without  the  same  feeling,  it  would  be  pain- 
ful ;  the  only  safe  mode  of  following  in  such  steps  is  to  attain 
perfect  knowledge  of  nature  herself,  and  then  to  suffer  our  own 
feelings  to  guide  us  in  the  selection  of  what  is  fitting  for  any  par- 
ticular purpose.  Every  painter  ought  to  paint  what  he  himself 
loves,  not  what  others  have  loved  ;  if  his  mind  be  pure  and 
sweetly  toned,  what  he  loves  will  be  lovely  ;  if  otherwise,  no  ex- 
ample can  guide  his  selection,  no  precept  govern  his  hand  ;  and 
farther  let  it  be  distinctly  observed,  that  all  this  mannered  land- 

*  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  give  farther  instances  at  present,  since 
I  purpose  hereafter  to  give  numerous  examples  of  this  kind  of  ideal  landscape. 
Of  true  and  noble  landscape,  as  such,  I  am  aware  of  no  instances  except 
where  least  they  might  have  been  expected,  among  the  sea-bred  Venetians. 
Ghirlandajo  shows  keen,  though  prosaic,  sense  of  nature  in  that  view  of 
Venice  behind  an  Adoration  of  Magi  in  the  Uffizii,  but  he  at  last  walled  him- 
self up  among  gilded  entablatures.  Masaccio  indeed  has  given  one  grand 
cxamble  in  the  freeco  of  the  Tribute  Money,  but  its  color  is  now  nearly  lost 


2U 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


[PART  IIT. 


scape  is  only  right  under  the  supposition  of  its  being  a  back- 
ground to  some  sapernatural  presence  ;  behind  mortal  beings  it 
would  be  wrong,  and  by  itself,  as  landscape,  ridiculous ;  and  far- 
ther, the  chief  virtue  of  it  results  from  the  exquisite  refinement  of 
those  natural  details  consistent  with  its  character  from  the  botani- 
cal drawing  of  the  flowers  and  the  clearness  and  brightness  of  the 

§  13  Color,  Another  mode  of  attaining  supernatural  character 
tion.^Their  use  by  purity  of  color  almost  shadowless,  no  more 
tronro?the°Su-  ^^^I'^ness  being  allowed  than  is  absolutely  necessary 
pernaturai.  for  the  explanation  of  the  forms,  and  the  vividness  of 
the  effect  enhanced  as  far  as  may  be  by  use  of  gilding,  enamel, 
and  other  jewellery.  I  think  the  smaller  works  of  Angelico  are 
perfect  models  in  this  respect ;  the  glories  about  the  heads  being 
of  beaten  rays  of  gold,  on  which  the  light  plays  and  changes  as 
the  spectator  moves  ;  (and  which  therefore  throw  the  purest  flesh 
color  out  in  dark  relief)  and  such  color  and  light  being  obtained 
by  the  enamelling  of  the  angel  wings  as  of  course  is  utterly  unat- 
tainable by  any  other  expedient  of  art ;  the  colors  of  the  drape 
ries  always  pure  and  pale  ;  blue,  rose,  or  tender  green,  or  brown, 
but  never  dark  or  gloomy ;  the  faces  of  the  most  celestial  fair- 
ness, brightly  flushed  :  the  height  and  glow  of  this  flush  are 
noticed  by  Constantin  as  reserved  by  the  older  painters  for  spirit- 
ual beings,  as  if  expressive  of  light  seen  through  the  body. 

I  cannot  think  it  necessary  while  I  insist  on  the  value  of  all 
these  seemingly  childish  means  when  in  the  hands  of  a  noble 
painter,  to  assert  also  their  futility  and  even  absurdity  if  employed 
by  no  exalted  power.  I  think  the  error  has  commonly  been  on 
the  side  of  scorn,  and  that  we  reject  much  in  our  foolish  vanity, 
whioh  if  wiser  and  more  earnest  we  should  delight  in.  But  two 
points  it  is  very  necessary  to  note  in  the  use  of  such  accessories. 
I  14.  Decora-  '^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^  ornamcnts  used  by  Angelico, 
must  Ibe  gene-  ^^^^^^y  Pcrugino,  but  especially  by  Angelico, 
ric,  are  always  of  a  generic  and  abstract  character.  The} 

are  not  diamonds,  nor  brocades,  nor  velvets,  nor  gold  embroide 
ries  ;  they  are  mere  spots  of  gold  or  of  color,  simple  patterns 
upon  textureless  draperies  ;  the  angel  wings  burn  with  transparent 
crimson  and  purple  and  amber,  but  they  are  not  set  forth  with 
peacocks'  plumes  ;  the  golden  circlets  gleam  with  changeful  light, 


so.  IT.  CII.  v.] 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


215 


but  they  are  not  beaded  with  elaborate  pearls  nor  set  with  studied 
sapphires. 

In  the  works  of  Filippino  Lippi,  Mantegna,  and  many  other 
painters  following,  interesting  examples  may  be  found  of  the  op- 
posite treatment ;  and  as  in  Lippi  the  heads  are  usually  very 
Bweet,  and  the  composition  severe,  the  degrading  effect  of  the 
realized  decorations  and  imitated  dress  may  be  seen  in  him  simply, 
and  without  any  addition  of  painfulness  from  other  deficiencies 
of  feeling.  The  larger  of  the  two  pictures  in  the  Tuscan  room 
of  the  Uffizii,  but  for  this  defect,  would  have  been  a  very  noble 
ideal  work. 

The  second  point  to  be  observed  is  that  brightness  ^  And  color 
of  color  is  altogether  inadmissible  without  purity  and  p^^- 
harmony ;  and  that  the  sacred  painters  must  not  be  followed  in 
their  frankness  of  unshadowed  color  unless  we  can  also  follow  them 
in  its  clearness.  As  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with  the  modern 
schools  of  Germany,  they  seem  to  be  entirely  ignorant  of  the  value 
of  color  as  an  assistant  of  feeling,  and  to  think  that  hardness,  dry- 
ness, and  opacity  are  its  virtues  as  employed  in  religious  art ; 
whereas  I  hesitate  not  to  affirm  that  in  such  art  more  than  in  any 
other,  clearness,  luminousness  and  intensity  of  hue  are  essential  to 
right  impression ;  and  from  the  walls  of  the  Arena  chapel  in  their 
rainbow  play  of  brilliant  harmonies,  to  the  solemn  purple  tones  of 
Perugino's  fresco  in  the  Albizzi  palace,  I  know  not  any  great  work 
of  sacred  art  which  is  not  as  precious  in  color  as  in  all  other  qual- 
ities (unless  indeed  it  be  a  Crucifixion  of  Fra  Angelico  in  the 
Florence  Academy,  which  has  just  been  glazed  and  pumiced  and 
painted  and  varnished  by  the  picture-cleaners  until  it  glares  from 
one  end  of  the  picture  gallery  to  the  other ;)  only  the  pure  white 
light  and  delicate  hue  of  the  idealists,  whose  colors  are  by  prefer- 
ence such  as  we  have  seen  to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  the  chapter 
on  Purity,  are  carefully  to  be  distinguished  from  the  golden  light 
and  deep  pitched  hue  of  the  school  of  Titian  whose  virtue  is  the 
grandeur  of  earthly  solemnity,  not  the  glory  of  heavenly  rejoicing. 

But  leaving  these  accessory  circumstances  and  ^  j^gai 
touching  the  treatment  of  the  bodily  form,  it  is  evi-  j^^J"^  ftJu^of 
dent  in  the  first  place  that  whatever  typical  beauty  ^^^^ 

^  ^  .  susceptible. 

the  human  body  is  capable  of  possessing  must  be  be- 
stowed upon  it  when  it  is  understood  as  spiritual.   And  therefore 


216 


OF  THE   SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


[part  Hi 


those  general  proportions  and  types  which  are  deducible  frorn 

comparison  of  the  Lobler  individuals  of  the  race,  must  be  adopted 
and  adhered  to  ;  admitting  among  them  not,  as  in  the  human  ideal, 
such  varieties  as  result  from  past  suffering,  or  contest  with  sin,  but 
such  only  as  are  consistent  with  sinless  nature  or  are  the  signs  of 
instantly  or  continually  operative  affections ;  for  though  it  is  con- 
ceivable that  spirit  should  suffer,  it  is  inconceivable  that  spiritual 
frame  should  retain  like  the  stamped  inelastic  human  clay,  the 
brand  of  sorrow  past,  unless  fallen. 

"  His  face, 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  entrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek." 

Yet  so  far  forth  the  angelic  ideal  is  diminished,  nor  could  this  be 
suffered  in  pictorial  representation. 

§  17.  Anatom-  Again,  such  muscular  development  as  is  necessary 
ment^^how^far  to  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  body,  is  to  be  rendered, 
admissible.  -g^^  ^^^^  which  is  nccessary  to  strength,  or  which  ap- 
pears to  have  been  the  result  of  laborious  exercise,  is  inadmissible. 
No  herculean  form  is  spiritual,  for  it  is  degrading  the  spiritual  crea 
ture  to  suppose  it  operative  through  impulse  of  bone  and  sinew ; 
its  power  is  immaterial  and  constant,  neither  dependent  on,  nor 
developed  by  exertion.  Generally,  it  is  well  to  conceal  anatomical 
development  as  far  as  may  be  ;  even  Michael  Angelo's  anatomy 
interferes  with  his  divinity ;  in  the  hands  of  lower  men  the  angel 
becomes  a  preparation.  How  far  it  is  possible  to  subdue  or  gen- 
eralize the  naked  form  I  venture  not  to  affirm,  but  I  believe  that 
it  is  best  to  conceal  it  as  far  as  may  be,  not  with  draperies  light 
and  undulating,  that  fall  in  with,  and  exhibit  its  principal  lines, 
but  with  draperies  severe  and  linear,  such  as  were  constantlj^  em- 
ployed before  the  time  of  Raffaelle.  I  recollect  no  single  instance 
of  a  naked  angel  that  does  not  look  boylike  or  childlike,  and  un- 
spiritualized ;  even  Fra  Bartolomeo's  might  with  advantage  be 
spared  from  the  pictures  at  Lucca,  and,  in  the  hands  of  inferior 
men,  the  sky  is  merely  encumbered  with  sprawling  infants ;  those 
of  Domenichino  in  the  Madonna  del  Rosario,  and  Martyrdom  of 
St.  Agnes,  are  peculiarly  offensive,  studies  of  bare-legged  children 
howling  and  kicking  in  volumes  of  smoke.  Confusion  seems  to  ex 
hi  in  the  minds  of  subsequent  painters  between  Angels  and  Cupids 


3C  n.  CH.  V.J 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


217 


Farther,  tlie  qualities  of  symmetry  and  repose  are  ^  gymme- 
of  peculiar  value  in  spiritual  form.  We  find  the  for-  try^^^now  vav 
mer  most  earnestly  sought  by  all  the  great  painters 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  hair,  wherein  no  loosely  flowing  nor  va- 
ried form  is  admitted,  but  all  restrained  in  undisturbed  and  equal 
ringlets ;  often,  as  in  the  infant  Christ  of  Era  Angelico,  supported 
on  the  forehead  in  forms  of  sculpturesque  severity.  The  Angel  of 
Masaccio,  in  the  Deliverance  of  Peter,  grand  both  in  countenance 
and  motion,  loses  much  of  his  spirituality  because  the  painter  has 
put  a  little  too  much  of  his  own  character  into  the  hair,  and  left  it 
disordered. 

Of  repose,  and  its  exalting  power,  I  have  already  §  19  The  influ- 
said  enough  for  our  present  purpose,  though  I  have  art^^how^^an- 
not  insisted  on  the  peculiar  manifestation  of  it  in  the  g*^^*^^^- 
Christian  ideal  as  opposed  to  the  pagan.  But  this,  as  well  as  all 
other  questions  relating  to  the  particular  development  of  the  Greek 
mind,  is  foreign  to  the  immediate  inquiry,  which  therefore  I  shall 
here  conclude  in  the  hope  of  resuming  it  in  detail  after  examining 
the  laws  of  beauty  in  the  inanimate  creation ;  alv/ays,  however, 
holding  this  for  certain,  that  of  whatever  kind  or  degree  the  short 
coming  may  be,  it  is  not  possible  but  that  short  coming  should  be 
visible  in  every  pagan  conception,  when  set  beside  Christian ;  and 
believing,  for  my  own  part,  that  there  is  not  only  deficiency,  but 
such  difference  in  kind  as  must  make  all  Greek  conception  full  of 
danger  to  the  student  in  proportion  to  his  admiration  of  it ;  as  I 
think  has  been  fatally  seen  in  its  effect  on  the  Italian  schools,  when 
its  pernicious  element  first  mingled  with  their  solemn  purity,  and 
recently  in  its  influence  on  the  French  historical  painters :  neither 
can  I  from  my  present  knowledge  fix  upon  an  ancient  statue  which 
expresses  by  the  countenance  any  one  elevated  character  of  soul, 
or  any  single  enthusiastic  self-abandoning  affection,  much  less  any 
such  majesty  of  feeling  as  might  mark  the  features  for  supernatu 
ral.  The  Greek  could  not  conceive  a  spirit ;  he  could  ^  20.  its  scope 
do  nothing  without  Hmbs  ;  his  god  is  a  finite  god,  t^ow  limited, 
talking,  pursuing  and  going  journeys;*  if  at  any  time  he  was 

*  I  know  not  anything  in  the  range  of  art  more  unspiritual  than  the  Apollo 
Belviderc ;  the  raising  of  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  in  surprise  at  the  truth 
of  the  arrow  is  altogether  human,  and  would  be  vulgar  in  a  prince,  much 
more  in  a  deity.  The  sandals  destroy  the  divinity  of  the  foot,  and  the  lip  id 
curled  with  mortal  passion. 

VOL.  IT.  10 


218 


OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


[part  III 


touched  ^ith  a  true  feeling  of  the  unseen  powers  around  him,  it 

was  in  the  field  of  poised  battle,  for  there  is  something  in  the 
near  coming  of  the  shadow  of  death,  something  in  the  devoted  ful- 
filment of  mortal  duty,  that  reveals  the  real  God,  though  darkly ; 
that  pause  on  the  field  of  Plataea  was  not  one  of  vain  superstition ; 
the  two  white  figures  that  blazed  along  the  Delphic  plain,  when 
the  earthquake  and  the  fire  led  the  charge  from  Olympus,  were 
more  than  sunbeams  on  the  battle  dust ;  the  sacred  cloud,  with  its 
lance  light  and  triumph  singing,  that  went  down  to  brood  over  the 
masts  of  Salamis,  was  more  than  morning  mist  among  the  olives : 
and  yet  what  were  the  Greek's  thoughts  of  his  god  of  battle  ? 
'No  spirit  power  was  in  the  vision ;  it  was  a  being  of  clay  strength 
and  human  passion,  foul,  fierce,  and  changeful ;  of  penetrable  arms, 
and  vulnerable  flesh.  Gather  what  we  may  of  great,  from  pagan 
chisel  or  pagan  dream,  and  set  it  beside  the  orderer  of  Christian 
warfare,  Michael  the  Archangel :  not  Milton's  "  with  hostile  brow 
and  visage  all  inflamed,"  not  even  Milton's  in  kingly  treading 
of  the  hills  of  Paradise,  not  Raff'aelle's  with  the  expanded  wings 
and  brandished  spear,  but  Perugino's  with  his  triple  crest  of  trace- 
less  plume  unshaken  in  heaven,  his  hand  fallen  on  his  crossleted 
sword,  the  truth  girdle  binding  his  undinted  armor ;  God  has  put 
his  power  upon  him,  resistless  radiance  is  on  his  limbs,  no  lines 
are  there  of  earthly  strength,  no  trace  on  the  divine  features  of 
earthly  anger ;  trustful  and  thoughtful,  fearless,  but  full  of  love, 
incapable  except  of  the  repose  of  eternal  conquest,  vessel  and  in- 
strument of  Omnipotence,  filled  like  a  cloud  with  the  victor  light, 
the  dust  of  principalities  and.powers  beneath  his  feet,  the  murmur 
of  hell  against  him  heard  by  his  spiritual  ear  like  the  winding  of 
a  shell  on  the  far  off  sea-shore. 

§  21.  Conciu-  ^^^^     attempt  to  pursue  the  comparison ;  the 

sion.  ^^^Q  orders  of  art  have  in  them  nothing  common,  and 

the  field  of  sacred  history,  the  intent  and  scope  of  Christian  feel- 
ing, are  too  wide  and  exalted  to  admit  of  the  juxtaposition  of  any 
other  sphere  or  order  of  conception  ;  they  embrace  all  other  fields 
like  the  dome  of  heaven.  With  what  comparison  shall  we  compare 
the  types  of  the  martyr  saints,  the  St.  Stephen  of  Fra  Bartolomeo, 
with  his  calm  forehead  crowned  by  the  stony  diadem,  or  the  St, 
Catherine  of  Raffaelle  looking  up  to  heaven  in  the  dawn  of  the 
eternal  day,  with  her  lips  parted  in  the  resting  from  her  pain  ?  or 


sc.  II.  CBk  v.]  OF  THE  SUPERHUMAN  IDEAL. 


219 


witli  what  the  Madonnas  of  Francia  and  Pinturicchio,  in  whom  the 
hues  of  the  morning  and  the  solemnity  of  eve,  the  gladness  in  ac- 
complished promise,  and  sorrow  of  the  sword-pierced  heart,  are 
gathered  into  one  human  lamp  of  ineflfable  love  ?  or  with  what  the 
angel  choirs  of  Angelico,  with  the  flames  on  their  white  foreheads 
waving  brighter  as  they  move,  and  the  sparkles  streaming  from 
their  purple  wings  like  the  glitter  of  many  suns  upon  a  sounding 
sea,  listening,  in  the  pauses  of  alternate  song,  for  the  prolonging 
of  the  trumpet  blast,  and  the  answering  of  psaltery  and  cym* 
bal,  throughout  the  endless  deep  and  from  all  the  star  shores  ot 
heaven  ? 


ADDENDA. 


Although  the  plan  of  the  present  portion  of  this  work  does  not  admit 
of  particular  criticism,  it  will  neither  be  useless  nor  irrelevant  to  refer 
to  one  or  two  works,  lately  before  the  public,  in  the  Exhibitions  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  which  either  illustrate,  or  present  exceptions  to,  any 
of  the  preceding  statements.  I  would  first  mention,  with  reference 
to  what  has  been  advanced  respecting  the  functions  of  Associative 
Imagination,  the  very  important  work  of  Mr.  Linnell,  the  "  Eve  of  the 
Deluge;"  a  picture  upheld  by  its  admirers  (and  these  were  some  of  the 
most  intelligent  judges  of  the  day)  for  a  work  of  consummate  imagina- 
tive power ;  while  it  was  pronounced  by  the  public  journals  to  be  "  a 
chaos  of  unconcocted  color."  If  the  writers  for  the  press  had  been 
aware  of  the  kind  of  study  pursued  by  Mr.  Linnell  through  many 
laborious  years,  characterised  by  an  observance  of  nature  scrupulously 
and  minutely  patient,  directed  by  the  deepest  sensibihty,  and  aided  by 
a  power  of  drawing  almost  too  refined  for  landscape  subjects,  and  only 
to  be  understood  by  reference  to  his  engravings  after  Michael  Angelo, 
they  would  have  felt  it  to  be  unlikely  that  the  work  of  such  a  man 
should  be  entirely  undeserving  of  respect.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
grounds  of  its  praise  were  unfortunately  chosen ;  for,  though  posses- 
sing many  merits,  it  had  no  claim  whatever  to  be  ranked  among  pro- 
ductions of  Creative  art.  It  would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  point  to  a 
work  so  exalted  in  feeling,  and  so  deficient  in  invention.  The  sky  had 
been  strictly  taken  from  nature,  this  was  evident  at  a  glance ;  and  as 
a  study  of  sky  it  was  every  way  noble.  To  the  purpose  of  the  picture  it 
liardly  contributed:  its  sublimity  was  that  of  splendor,  not  of  terror ; 
and  its  darkness  that  of  retreating,  not  of  gathering,  storm.  The  fea- 
tures of  the  landscape  were  devoid  alike  of  variety  and  probability ; 
the  division  of  the  scene  by  the  central  valley  and  winding  river  at 
once  theatrical  and  commonplace ;  and  the  foreground,  on  which  the 
light  was  intense,  alike  devoid  of  dignity  in  arrangement,  and  of  interest 
in  detail. 

The  falseness  or  deficiency  of  color  in  the  works  of  Mr.  Landseer 


ADDENDA. 


221 


has  been  remarked  above.  The  writer  has  much  pleasure  in  notic- 
ing a  very  beautiful  exception  in  the  picture  of  the  ^'Kandom  Shot," 
certainly  the  most  successful  rendering  he  has  ever  seen  of  the  huo 
of  snow  under  warm  but  subdued  light.  The  subtlety  of  gradation 
from  the  portions  of  the  wreath  fully  illumined,  to  those  which,  feebly 
tinged  by  the  horizontal  rays,  swelled  into  a  dome  of  dim  purple,  dark 
against  the  green  evening  sky ;  the  truth  of  the  blue  shadows,  with  which 
this  dome  was  barred,  and  the  depth  of  delicate  color  out  of  which  the 
Ughts  upon  the  footprints  were  raised,  deserved  the  most  earnest  and 
serious  admiration ;  proving,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  errors  in  color, 
so  frequently  to  be  regretted  in  the  works  of  the  painter,  are  the  result 
rather  of  inattention  than  of  feeble  perception.  A  curious  proof  of 
this  inattention  occurs  in  the  disposition  of  the  shadows  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  "  Old  Cover  Hack,"  No.  229.  One  of  its  points  of  light 
is  on  the  rusty  iron  handle  of  a  pump,  in  the  shape  of  an  S. '  The  sun 
strikes  the  greater  part  of  its  length,  illuminating  the  perpendicular 
portion  of  the  curve;  yet  shadow  is  only  cast  on  the  wall  behind  by 
the  returning  portion  of  the  lower  extremity.  A  smile  may  be  excited 
by  the  notice  of  so  trivial  a  circumstance ;  but  the  simpHcity  of  the 
error  renders  it  the  more  remarkable,  and  the  great  masters  of  chiaros- 
curo are  accurate  in  all  such  minor  points;  a  vague  sense  of  greater 
truth  results  from  this  correctness,  even  when  it  is  not  in  particulars 
analyzed  or  noted  by  the  observer.  In  the  small  but  very  valuable 
Paul  Potter  in  Lord  Westminster's  collection,  the  body  of  one  of  the 
sheep  under  the  hedge  is  for  the  most  part  in  shadow,  but  the  sunlight 
touches  the  extremity  of  the  back.  The  sun  is  low,  and  the  shadows 
feeble  and  distorted ;  yet  that  of  the  sunlighted  fleece  is  cast  exactly  in 
its  true  place  and  proportion  beyond  that  of  the  hedge.  The  spectator 
may  not  observe  this ;  yet,  unobserved,  it  is  one  of  the  circumstances 
which  make  him  feel  the  picture  to  be  full  of  sunshine. 

As  an  example  of  perfect  color,  and  of  the  most  refined  handling 
ever  perhaps  exhibited  in  animal  painting,  the  Butcher's  Dog  in  the 
corner  of  Mr.  Mulready's  ^'Butt,"  No.  160.,  deserved  a  whole  room  of 
the  Academy  to  himself  This,  with  the  spaniel  in  the  "  Choosing  the 
Wedding  Gown,"  and  the  two  dogs  in  the  hayfield  subject  (Burchell 
and  Sophia),  displays  perhaps  the  most  wonderful,  because  the  most 
dignified,  finish  in  the  expression  of  anatomy  and  covering — of  muscle 
and  hide  at  once,  and  assuredly  the  most  perfect  unity  of  drawing  and 
color,  which  the  entire  range  of  ancient  and  modern  art  can  exhibit. 
Albert  Durer  is  indeed  the  only  rival  who  might  be  suggested ;  and, 
though  greater  far  in  imagination,  and  equal  in  draughtsmanship,  Albert 
Durer  was  less  true  and  less  delicate  in  hue.  In  sculpturesque  arrange-, 
ment  both  masters  show  the  same  degree  of  feeling :  any  of  these  dogs  rf 


ADDENDA. 


Mulready  might  be  taken  out  of  the  canvass  and  cut  in  alabaster,  or, 
perhaps  better,  struck  upon  a  coin.  Every  lock  and  line  of  the  hair 
has  been  grouped  as  it  is  on  a  G-reek  die ;  and  if  this  not  always  v^ith- 
out  some  loss  of  ease  and  of  action,  yet  this  very  loss  is  ennobhng,  in 
a  period  when  all  is  generally  sacrificed  to  the  great  coxcombry  of  art, 
the  affectation  of  ease. 

Yet  Mr.  Mulready  himself  is  not  always  free  from  affectation  of  some 
kind ;  mannerism,  at  least,  there  is  in  his  treatment  of  tree  trunks. 
There  is  a  ghastliness  about  his  labored  anatomies  of  them,  as  well  as 
a  want  of  specific  character.  Why  need  they  be  always  flayed  ?  The 
hide  of  a  beech  tree,  or  of  a  birch  or  fir,  is  nearly  as  fair  a  thing  as  an 
animal's ;  glossy  as  a  dove's  neck  barred  with  black  like  a  zebra,  or 
glowing  in  purple  grey  and  velvet  brown  like  furry  cattle  in  sunset. 
Wh}^  not  paint  these  as  Mr.  Mulready  paints  other  things,  as  they  are? 
that  simplest,  that  deepest  of  all  secrets,  which  gives  such  majesty  to 
the  ragged  leaves  about  the  edges  of  the  pond  in  the  "  Gravel-pit" 
(No.  125.),  and  imparts  a  strange  interest  to  the  grey  ragged  urchins 
disappearing  behind  the  bank,  that  bank  so  low,  so  familiar,  so  sublime ! 
What  a  contrast  betw^een  the  deep  sentiment  of  that  commonest  of  all 
common,  homeliest  of  all  homely,  subjects,  and  the  lost  sentiment  of 
Mr.  Stanfield's  "  Amalfi,"  the  chief  landscape  of  the  year,  full  of  exalted 
material,  and  mighty  crags,  and  massy  seas,  grottoes,  precipices,  and 
convents,  fortress-towers  and  cloud-capped  mountains,  and  all  in  vain, 
merely  because  that  same  simple  secret  has  been  despised ;  because 
nothing  there  is  painted  as  it  is  I  The  picture  was  a  most  singular 
example  of  the  scenic  assemblage  of  contradictory  theme  which  is 
characteristic  of  Picturesque,  as  opposed  to  Poetical,  composition.  The 
lines  chosen  from  Rogers  for  a  titular  legend  were  full  of  summer, 
glowing  with  golden  light  and  toned  with  quiet  melancholy  : 

"  To  him  who  sails 
XJufler  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages,  , 
Scattered  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds, 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
And  glittering  thro'  their  lemon  groves,  announce 
The  region  of  Amalfi.    Then,  half-fallen, 
A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice, 
Their  ancient  landmark,  comes — long  may  it  lastl 
And  to  the  seaman,  in  a  distant  age, 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt, 
Serve  for  their  monument.'" 

Prepared  by  these  lines  for  a  dream  upon  deep  calm  waters,  under 
the  shadow  and  scent  of  the  close  l(3mon  leaves,  the  spectator  found 
himself  placed  by  the  painter,  wet  through,  in  a  noisy  fishing  boat,  on 
a  splashing  sea,  with  just  as  much  on  his  hands  as  he  could  manage  to 


ADDENDA. 


223 


keep  her  gunwale  from  being  stove  in  against  a  black  rock ;  and  with 
a  heavy  grey  squall  to  windward.  (This  squall,  by  the  by,  was  the 
very  same  which  appeared  in  the  picture  of  the  Magra  of  1847,  and  so 
were  the  snowy  mountains  above ;  only  the  squall  at  Amalfi  entered  on 
the  left,  and  at  the  Magra  on  the  right.)  Now  the  scenery  of  Amalfi 
is  impressive  alike  in  storm  or  calm,  and  the  writer  has  seen  the  Medi- 
terranean as  majestic  and  as  southern-looking  in  its  rage  as  in  its  rest. 
But  it  is  treating  both  the  green  water  and  woods  unfairly  to  destroy 
their  peace  without  expressing  their  power ;  and  withdraw  from  them 
their  sadness  and  their  sun,  without  the  substitution  of  any  effect  more 
terrific  than  that  of  a  squall  at  the  ISTore.  The  snow  on  the  distant 
mountains  chilled  what  it  could  not  elevate,  and  was  untrue  to  the  scene 
besides ;  there  is  no  snow  on  the  Monte  St.  Angelo  in  summer  except 
what  is  kept  for  the  Neapolitan  confectioners.  The  great  merit  of  the 
picture  was  its  rock-painting ;  too  good  to  have  required  the  aid  of 
the  exaggeration  of  forms  which  satiated  the  eye  throughout  the 
composition. 

Mr.  F.  R.  Pickersgill's  ^'Contest  of  Beauty"  (]Sro_615.),  and  Mr. 
Uwinss  "Vineyard  Scene  in  the  South  of  France,"  were,  after  Mr. 
Mulready's  works,  among  the  most  interesting  pieces  of  color  in  the 
Exhibition.  The  former,  very  rich  and-eweet  in  its  harmonies,  and 
especially  happy  in  its  contrasts  of  light  and  dark  armor ;  nor  less  in 
the  fancy  of  the  little  Love  who,  losing  his  hold  of  the  orange  boughs, 
was  falling  ignominiously  without  having  time  to  open  his  wings.  The 
latter  was  a  curious  example  of  what  I  have  described  as  abstraction 
of  color.  Strictly  true  or  possible  it  was  not ;  a  vintage  is  usually 
a  dusty  and  dim-looking  procedure;  but  there  were  poetry  and 
feeling  in  Mr.  Uwins's  idealization  of  the  sombre  black  of  the 
veritable  grape  into  a  luscious  ultra-marine  purple,  glowing  among  the 
green  leaves  like  so  much  painted  glass.  The  figures  were  bright  and 
graceful  in  the  extreme,  and  most  happily  grouped.  Little  else  that 
could  be  called  color  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  walls  of  the  Exhibition, 
with  the  exception  of  the  smaller  works  of  Mr.  Etty.  Of  these,  the 
single  head,  "Morning  Prayer"  (No.  25.),  and  the  "Still  Life"  (No. 
73.),  deserved,  allowing  for  their  peculiar  aim,  the  highest  praise.  The 
larger  subjects,  more  especially  the  St.  John,  were  wanting  in  the 
merits  peculiar  to  the  painter ;  and  in  other  respects  it  is  alike  painful 
and  useless  to  allude  to  them.  A  very  important  and  valuable  work 
of  Mr.  Harding  was  placed,  as  usual,  where  its  merits  could  be  but  ill 
seen,  and  where  its  chief  fault,  a  feebleness  of  color  in  the  principal  light 
on  the  distant  hills,  was  apparent.  It  was  one  of  the  very  few  views 
of  the  year  which  were  transcripts,  nearly  without  exaggeration,  of  the 
features  of  the  locahties. 


224 


ADDENDA. 


Among  the  less  conspicuous  landscapes,  Mr.  W.  E.  Dighton's  "  Hay- 
Meadow  Corner"  deserved  especial  notice ;  it  was  at  once  vigorous, 
fresh,  faithful,  and  unpretending,  the  management  of  the  distance 
most  ingenious,  and  the  painting  of  the  foreground,  with  the  single 
exception  of  Mr.  Mulready's  above  noticed,  unquestionably  the  best  in 
the  room.  I  have  before  had  occasion  to  notice  a  picture  by  this 
artist,  "  A  Hayfield  in  a  Shower,"  exhibited  in  the  British  Institution 
in  1847,  and  this  year  (1848)  in  the  Scottish  Academy,  whose  sky,  in 
qualities  of  rainy,  shattered,  transparent  grey,  I  have  seldom  seen 
equalled ;  nor  the  mist  of  its  distance,  expressive  alike  of  previous  heat 
and  present  beat  of  rain.  I  look  with  much  interest  for  other  works 
by  this  painter. 

A  hurried  visit  to  Scotland  in  the  spring  of  this  year,  while  it  enables 
the  writer  to  acknowledge  the  ardor  and  genius  manifested  in  very 
many  of  the  works  exhibited  in  the  Scottish  Academy,  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  furnishing  him  with  sufficient  grounds  for  specific  criticism. 
He  cannot,  however,  err  in  testifying  his  concurrence  in  the  opinion 
expressed  to  him  by  several  of  the  most  distinguished  members  of  that 
Academy,  respecting  the  singular  merit  of  the  works  of  Mr.  H.  Drum- 
mond.  A  cabinet  picture  of  "Banditti  on  the  Watch,"  appeared  to 
him  one  of  the  most  masterly,  unaffected,  and  sterling  pieces  of  quiet 
painting  he  has  ever  seen  from  the  hand  of  a  living  artist ;  and  the 
other  works  of  Mr.  Drummond  were  ahke  remarkable  for  their  manly 
and  earnest  finish,  and  their  sweetness  of  feeling. 


